


Gonna Make You Some Peace (someday)

by SpinnerDolphin



Series: Angel Network [6]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Azazel has nervous breakdowns, Belial is deeply stupid, Castiel is so confused, Crowley and Lucifer hate hell a lot, F/M, Gen, M/M, but he likes mars bars, demons are morons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 74,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24461347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinnerDolphin/pseuds/SpinnerDolphin
Summary: Castiel shows up on Crowley and Aziraphale's doorstep looking like somebody murdered his puppy. Turns out, that's not far from the truth.Also turns out that there's some serious crap going on on in Nightmare World, like serious crap, and it's starting to affect Daydream World. Bright side--with Castiel here, they can close some of the holes. Dark side--it means Crowley and Lucifer have to go to Hell. Damnit.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Angel Network [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1364311
Comments: 1610
Kudos: 1146





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME BACK EVERYONE!! Let the madness begin. 
> 
> I do want to post two warnings for this story: First, SPOILERS for Supernatural because I sort of caught up and Castiel is so so sad. Also, the whole alternate universe thing abruptly became relevant to SPN?? What even. 
> 
> Second! A puppy gets casually tortured at one point in this story, because demons. Crowley rescues him, because Crowley is the sweetest. Just a head's up. The puppy's fine at the end though, promise. 
> 
> This is also very much book!Good Omens though. The Beelzebub who appears is the vaguely human-shaped ball of fire, mostly because I like the buzzing. 
> 
> MANY MANY MANY THANKS TO [ Katadactyl ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katadactyl) and [ Viola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feartheviolas/pseuds/feartheviolas) FOR BETAING THIS!!!!
> 
> Footnotes in this fic are still under construction. If you read chapter by chapter they work just fine; but if you show the entire story they'll throw you back to the wrong spot. I'm working on it!!

Crowley leaned forward, his arms crossed over the back of the chair. His left wing was folded softly against his back, his right stretched all the way out, as far as it would go, pinions reaching for the far wall. Behind him, Aziraphale scratched at a particularly itchy spot, straightening his coverts. He sighed, thrumming low in his throat.

It was so late it was early, somewhere around three in the morning. Crowley hadn’t been able to sleep, because this Left Hand thing was way more stressful than he’d signed up for and things looked, as always, bad. Aziraphale had pulled him downstairs to the bookshop proper, where there was a great open space and one could really stretch. He’d set to work at Crowley’s wings, his fingers gentle, his dowel like sunshine on old, worn pages. Distantly, hazily, Crowley could hear him murmuring about the state Crowley had got himself in, twisted feathers that didn’t lie flat. Crowley laid his cheek on his forearm, comforted by Aziraphale’s prattle, thrumming in time with the touches of his hands. He closed his eyes, sleepy, and finally started to relax.

Of course, of _course_ , that was when there was a soft knock on the door. Crowley jerked out of his relaxed haze and Aziraphale froze. Adrenaline, or whatever the celestial equivalent was, raced through Crowley’s veins. Was it Belial again, come to tell him that more souls had escaped through the tears[1]?

The door clicked open, despite the lock, and Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s tension behind him, tension that spoke more of an old soldier than a bookshop owner. The Cherub thing was really not such a big deal, at the end of the day, but it did come with a few quirks. Aziraphale was more like a heron or an owl, these days, something that might eat a little snake like Crowley. Of course, he would never raise a hand against Crowley, but it had taken some getting used to. Cherubs were designed to take down evil, and while Aziraphale was still Aziraphale, Crowley had spent a long while looking for, fearing, any hint of that Naomi. Lucky for him, there wasn’t much to be found. Now, Aziraphale slid to his side, rather than at his back. His sharpened wings unfurled, battle-ready, all four of them.

Together, they watched the door. As it swung wide, he relaxed abruptly at Crowley’s side.

Crowley blinked in shock.

Castiel, Angel of Thursday and sole Angel Network resident of Nightmare World, stood bedraggled and miserable in the London rain.

“Aziraphale,” he rasped. He sounded awful. “I’m sorry to come to your door so late—I had no concept of what time it may be—”

“Are you _insane?_ ” Crowley blurted. He hopped off the chair and folded his wings. “Come inside, you idiot! It’s raining!”

“Hello, Crowley,” said Castiel, and he slipped in through the door. It closed behind him, a casual miracle that he said was not worth the effort, on his world.

Crowley went right up to him, more pleased than he would admit[2] to see him. “You look terrible. What happened?”

To his absolute alarm, Castiel’s eyes went misty and his shoulders slumped. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he said.

“Well you’re home now,” said Aziraphale definitively. “Let me make you some cocoa.”

Castiel’s breath caught and his lip wobbled.

“What,” Crowley said, “did that awful place do to you?”

“What do you do,” Castiel said, and he looked directly into Crowley’s eyes, “Crowley, when your people die, or when they don’t care about you anymore?”

His voice was so thick, so awful, that Crowley’s heart twisted. “You did exactly right,” he said. “You came home.” He took his arm and tugged gently. “Come on,” he said, pulling him toward the stairs. He caught Aziraphale’s eye, and Aziraphale nodded firmly, agreeing. “Let’s get you some of Aziraphale’s cocoa, and you’re going to take off this ridiculous coat, and we’re going to do your wings, okay? This is not the tie we gave you.” There was more space downstairs for preening, but something in Crowley wanted to pull Castiel deeper into the safety of their home.

Castiel followed him, weirdly docile. He actually sniffled. “It was destroyed,” he whispered. “By Leviathan. But I think it saved my life.”

“Good,” said Aziraphale, following them. “That was what it was made to do. Come along, now.”

They made it to the kitchen upstairs, where Aziraphale miracled some cocoa, and then they went to the sitting room. They wrestled Castiel’s sopping wet coat off and then sat him down on the sofa with Aziraphale on one side. Crowley took one of the chairs.

“Firstly,” Crowley said, “How did you get here?”

“There are holes in Hell,” Castiel said softly. “I knew the way.”

Crowley’s concern was doused in ice. “Shit,” he hissed. “Okay. Glad you’re here and all, but what happened to the dog?”

Castiel looked up from his cup of cocoa and blinked at him.

“The Hellhound. That guarded the gate on our side. There’s supposed to be a hound.”

“Yes,” said Castiel, “I killed it.”

“Shit,” Crowley muttered again. “Okay. You’re in our world now. Can you not kill Hellhounds? Particularly because I own one?”

Castiel blinked at him. “You have a Hellhound?”

“Yes. Her name is Watchdog. She is sleeping, because it is three in the morning and she kind of thinks she’s a regular dog[3]. Please don’t hurt her.”

Aziraphale rubbed Castiel’s arm. “It’s alright, dear. Watchie is lovely. She won’t attack you unless you attack her, or one of us. She’ll probably growl, because you’re an angel, but I’ll introduce you. She’s a wonderful companion.”

Castiel looked at Aziraphale, and his blue eyes were so tired and so trusting. Crowley wanted to hide him away somewhere safe for the rest of time. “Alright,” Castiel said.

“I gotta make a call,” Crowley said, doing some mental math. “Be right back. Don’t go anywhere!” It was 8pm in LA. He could totally call Lucifer.

Crowley sprinted down the stairs and out the door into the rain. His wings were only half-preened but that was fine. He unfurled them and leaped as high as he could, up, up, up over London. He flew all the way to Baker Street, because he liked the thrill of pulling the wool over old Sherlock’s eyes, and landed on the roof of 224. Sherlock, across the street, was still awake and playing his violin. Crowley could see him through the window. Poor old bastard[4]. 

He was well out of Castiel’s earshot, so he called Lucifer.

The phone rang and rang, before Lucifer picked up.

“Crowley,” he said, displeased[5], “What’s happened now?”

“One of the hounds just got killed,” Crowley said, straight to the point. “One of the dogs guarding the holes.”

Lucifer paused[6]. “So, you’re saying there’s a Nightmare World monster in Hell. Or on Earth. Again.”

“No,” said Crowley. “It was Castiel, actually. He’s here, with us. Something’s—really wrong. He killed the hound. Once he figures out that you’re not Nightmare Lucifer, he’ll be upset about it, but give me some time.”

“Which hole?”

“No idea,” Crowley said cheerfully.

“Useless as always,” Lucifer sighed. “Castiel, Castiel—are his humans with him? Azazel still has a bone to pick with that Dean, for killing his alternate. I can send him off to the Eighth Circle, if the boy’s here. The big worms will keep him busy.”

“No humans,” Crowley said. “One of them might have died? I haven’t got the full story yet, but I know the look. He doesn’t look good. I wanted to tell you about the hole first. We really need to patch them, boss.”

“I am aware. I’ll send Azazel and his legions to patrol with some dogs; maybe he’ll find the unguarded one. Call up Belial and have him do another inventory.”

Islington had torn twenty-six holes in total. One went to Nightmare Heaven, which was mostly empty, thank Someone, and the rest went to Nightmare Hell. Most of them were in Dis and the rest of the Sixth Circle, but Islington had been in Hell for years, and some of them were scattered far and wide. Azazel had marked all of them, and he’d marked them well. Lucifer wasn’t kidding when he said that Azazel was a competent sort of demon.

The holes didn’t have names, though, and they didn’t even have numbers. Numbers would have been Asteroth’s jurisdiction, and Asteroth was dead. Anyone else who numbered them—it wouldn’t stick. From the bottom looking up, Crowley hadn’t seen the problem with Asteroth’s death; now that he actually had a rank, he could see the hole it left.

Even though Asteroth had been a total bastard. Especially to Belial, who, from the top looking down, was basically a golden retriever and about as intelligent. He was now Crowley’s secretary. He’d started off pretty sullen about it, but Crowley had bought his friendship with Mars Bars.

“Will do. How’s Chloe?” Crowley asked.

“She’s brilliant,” Lucifer said, voice evening and softening as it always did when he spoke about her. “We’re working on a case – Barry Thomson was impaled by a piece of rebar. She’s sitting next to me in the car. Say hello, darling.”

Crowley could hear Chloe’s “Hi Crowley!” from the other side of the car, through the phone. He chuckled.

“Tell her I say hello back,” Crowley told Lucifer warmly. “And Ella too. I should run back to make sure Castiel hasn’t imploded yet.”

“Bring him to LA, if you can. I’m curious,” said Lucifer.

“Might take a while, boss. Gotta get him back on track, first. Crazy You really did a number on him, I think, and he looks really bad.”

“Alright. And do talk to Belial, too, when you have time.” The last was a courtesy that Crowley actually appreciated. It was kind of a code: _you are a volunteer and I respect that._ He did like Lucifer quite a lot. And he liked Linda even more, because Linda had definitely been the one to establish that protocol.

“Will do. Ciao.” He hung up.

Might as well do the Belial thing now, though.

Belial had tried to set Crowley on fire, once upon a time in the late BCs[7]. Apparently, Belial tried to set everyone on fire, at least once. The first time Crowley had summoned him, he had tried it again. According to Lucifer, that was practically how he communicated. 

These days, Crowley had figured out a better way to talk to him.

“Belial, Belial, archdemon Belial,” Crowley murmured. “I summon you Topside.”

Belial’s materialization was dramatic, as always. The roof of 224 Baker Street bubbled and frothed and only Crowley’s quick miracle stopped Belial from falling through the asphalt and crashing down to the other floors, melting concrete and setting fire along the way. Bloody stupid demon.

“WHO SUMMONS ME?” Belial howled, as the wind picked up and the flames licked his feet. He spread his great burnt-orange wings dramatically[8].

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Okay one: stop. Two: have a sweet.” He materialized a lolly and tossed it to the demon.

Belial caught it and brightened. The flames quenched and his wings folded. He unwrapped the lolly. Crowley watched him, amused.

Belial, having lived in Hell for most of his life, was unused to kindness or pleasure that didn’t come from someone else’s pain. He had been beyond pissed off when Crowley got the Left Hand position because he, naturally, thought he deserved it himself and he was also worried that Crowley would torture him, like Asteroth had[9]. Screw that. Crowley had decided that Belial shared the intelligence of a fluffy dog and was treating him accordingly. Enough sweets, and Belial became quite biddable. 

He was a beautiful creature, Belial. He had olive skin and dark hair, even darker eyes. Like Lucifer, he gave meaning to “tall, dark and handsome,” though Belial lacked the sophistication that exuded from Lucifer. Still, he was tall and visibly strong; if he just had the wits, he could charm any human he wanted. As it was, he jammed the lolly in his mouth and looked at Crowley expectantly.

“Hi,” said Crowley.

“’Fanks for the lolly,” Belial said around the sweet. “What can I do for you, m’lord?”

Still weird, being addressed that way.

“I need you to do another inventory of the holes,” he said slowly, carefully. “I have reason to believe that one of the hounds is dead, and I need you to find someone to replace it. Azazel is doing a patrol, too.”

Belial crunched the lolly in rage. “ _Who dares murder one of our great Hounds?”_

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley told him. “Really. He’s big, he’s strong, and it was a mistake. He’s being punished right now, okay? I need the hole guarded again ASAP.”

Belial looked at him blankly.

“As Soon As Possible,” Crowley said, sighing.

“Yes, sir,” said Belial. He looked at his lolly stick unhappily. He didn’t seem to realize that he could just miracle another.

“Oh, for—here, have another one.” Crowley tossed another to Belial, who caught it. His lips quirked up.

“Asteroth never gave me sweets, sir,” he said tentatively. 

That was pretty obvious. “Yeah, well, I’m not Asteroth, right?”

Belial kind of almost smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“Cool. Well, go on, relay that order, or whatever it is you do.”

“Yes, sir.” He crunched his lolly and spread his wings. “IT IS DONE!” and he disappeared in a burst of dramatic flame[10].

Crowley wiped soot off his skin. He’d been shirtless for the preening, and then, when summoning Belial, it helped to show off his fancy armband. “Great,” he muttered. “Now I need a bath.” He spread his own wings and made his way home.

\--------

[1] Probably not. Belial liked to make an entrance.

[2] More pleased than he’d even admit to himself; Crowley worried about Castiel, all alone in that terrible world. If he was here, than he was not there, and that could only be good.

[3]Watchdog was a very good watchdog. It was her Function; it was part of who she was. If Castiel had malevolent intent, or if he had walked in with aggression instead of sorrow, she would have been up and downstairs and growling in an instant. Of course, the bookshop was warded: no one with ill intent could pass through the door anyway. As it was, Watchie’s dreams turned a little strange and worrisome, but she didn’t wake. 

[4] Not really. Sherlock’s mind was racing because tomorrow was John’s birthday and normally they both disdained such things but—but—John had been nicked by a stray bullet the last case and Sherlock’s heart had shuddered in his chest and it was a strange impulse but he wanted to celebrate that his John was alive. He was pondering this as he played. He was far too preoccupied to notice Crowley across the street, the man who was not a man, if only Sherlock could work out what he was. The good one. The bookshop owner was the bad one. Preposterous, preposterous.

[5] They were on a case! Sort of. A stakeout, anyway. And he’d kissed darling Chloe’s palm and she’d gone over all wobbly; he’d hoped for a kiss in return. Damnit, Crowley. 

[6] Well that was bad.

[7] Rome. Saturnalia. Some years before Pompeii. Crowley had been extremely drunk, and he’d been thrown out of a tavern. Apparently, he made a very bad magister bibendi – who, for readers who do not know, was the guy who decided the ratio of water and wine, as Romans made very strong wine and typically watered it down. Who could blame Crowley for not wanting to add water to wine, when the unwatered stuff could get him drunk so nicely? Anyway. Belial had shown up demanding some kind of Hellish artifact and when Crowley gaped at him drunkenly, he’d set his toga on fire and disappeared in a huff. Crowley’d never really found out what that had been all about.

[8] Sherlock’s back was to the window, and he was really getting into the Vivaldi. He completely missed the drama.

[9] Also, he remembered the Saturnalia Incident and how he’d had to fetch Lucifer’s Ring himself after it had got stolen that time. Crowley had been too drunk to be of any service whatsoever, and that was annoying. Belial could hold a grudge like nobody’s business, but lollies made everything better.

[10] Which Sherlock also missed, because John had come into the sitting room and started to tell him to go to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

It was still raining of course, but Crowley was in no mood to get wet, so he didn’t. The flight back to Aziraphale’s bookshop was quick, and he jogged up the stairs to the sitting room.

Aziraphale had got Castiel’s shirt off and bullied the angel into a chair. He was fussing with Castiel’s raptor-wings, brown banded feathers in great disarray. Poor fellow looked terrible. They both looked up when Crowley came back in.

“Everything alright, dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah.” He smiled at Castiel. “Got a bit of a promotion, Downstairs. The holes are kind of my problem, now. Sorry.”

Castiel frowned. “A promotion? I thought you were—on Humanity’s side.”

“Still am. It’s a long story. Got a little complicated over the last few years, that’s all. The holes are in everybody’s best interest. I’ll tell you everything when you’re not so freaked out, promise.” He went to sit on the sofa.

“I am not freaked out,” Castiel grumbled, visibly freaked out.

“Yes, you are,” Aziraphale said gently. “Now that Crowley’s back, will you tell us what happened? I’m told that talking helps.”

Castiel looked down at his arms, crossed over the high-backed chair. “Does it?”

“According to Linda, who is a human therapist, yes,” Aziraphale ran his dowel under Castiel’s totally screwed up coverts. Crowley had a sneaking suspicion that the last time anyone had preened him had in fact been Crowley himself, the last time Castiel had been in Daydream World, years ago.

“You saw a human therapist?”

“Long story,” Crowley said again, wryly, as he sprawled on the sofa. “Had to do with Naomi.”

Castiel’s eyes went misty and upset. “I am. So sorry—”

Aziraphale tapped him sharply on the shoulder with his pretty papyrus dowel[1]. “None of that, now. That isn’t your fault. The blame lies with Islington, and no one else. You’re stalling.”

Castiel swallowed and slumped down against the back of the chair. “Yes. Jack is dead. God killed him. The body was possessed by a demon called Belphagor, and I killed him, but it—felt—like killing Jack again. Mary, Rowena and Ketch are dead, too. And now Dean blames _me_.” The last was choked.

Crowley had no idea who most of those people were. He did know Belphagor, though. Belphagor was an imp in Torments. He worked for Mastema. Nasty fellow. But he still had no idea what Castiel was talking about. God Himself killed someone? _God?_ He deigned to get His hands dirty? It seemed—unreal.

“You’ll have to back up,” he said softly. “Who’s Jack?”

“My _son_ ,” Castiel said wretchedly, a catch in his voice. “He was like a son to me. He was a Nephilim. Lucifer’s son, my nephew, in truth, but—he was also mine. He had a great destiny but none of it happened, and it was my fault.” He huffed out a breath that sounded like a sob. “I’d hoped—I’d thought he could be like your Adam. That he could make our world like yours.”

There’s your first mistake, Crowley thought but didn’t say. Free Will means humans do whatever they want. You can’t plan for anything, because they’ll surprise you, every time. A Nephilim raised by an angel, even an angel like Castiel, could never learn to be human.

“And—he was killed by—God?” Aziraphale asked faintly. He sounded just as stunned as Crowley was. How awful. 

Castiel nodded, cheek against his folded arms on the back of the chair.

“Bastard,” Crowley said definitively.

Castiel gave a huff of damp laughter. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale told him, cross. He combed his fingers through Castiel’s feathers, comforting. “I believe the usual ‘ineffable’ will send you into a towering rage, won’t it, my dear?”

“I have long given up on the Ineffable Plan, Aziraphale,” Castiel sighed. “I had faith in people. In Dean.”

“And now he blames you for your own boy’s death. Classy,” Crowley said, annoyed. Who did this human think he was, blaming Castiel for something like that? Castiel, who was clearly hurting terribly. 

But thinking about God personally smiting individuals made a hard knot of panic form in Crowley's chest. God’s Wrath lead to some very bad things, things like Floods and Earthquakes and whatnot. Paradoxes were definitely not on God’s Approved List of Things. Better not to think about it.

Castiel closed his eyes and didn’t say anything. He looked wretched.

“Well, for the record, _I_ don’t blame you,” Crowley said loudly. “Whatever destiny this boy had was crap, Castiel. The second he chooses to be human and not angel, the second he chooses Free Will, it all disappears. Humans don’t have Functions, and I’m glad they don’t. So you can’t blame yourself for that, at least. I can’t speak for Him Above—” he swallowed down the terror, “except to say that the bastard’s always been capricious, and if He wanted your boy dead then there wasn’t much you could do about it. Still not your fault.”

“Crowley’s right.” Aziraphale had Castiel lift his left wing higher so he could reach the secondaries. “There is no stopping God’s Will. You know that. And Free Will – well, the boy made his own choices, didn’t he?”

“He was just a child,” whispered Castiel.

“So was Adam, when he chose,” Aziraphale said lightly. “So he still is now. Sort of. Children still know. They are young, but the choice is still theirs. Perhaps it is unfair, but who could expect you to guide him through every choice? That is not Free Will, and he would resent you for it anyway. I firmly believe, my dear, that you did the best you could with the information you had. You are far more competent than Crowley and I ever could be.”

Crowley barked a laugh. “This is true. It’s what gets you into trouble, Castiel. Competence.”

“Incompetence on a grander scale,” Castiel said miserably. “I think I should retire. I nearly broke my whole world, several times.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said. “That’s settled, then. Retire here, with us.”

Castiel blinked. He looked up, right into Crowley’s eyes. Crowley hadn't had his sunglasses on all night, so he met that gaze directly. He grinned at him. “Home’s here, if you want it.”

Castiel swallowed. “I want it,” he said softly.

“Good,” said Aziraphale again, “We can get you settled. In a few weeks’ time we can introduce you to the rest of Angel Network, how does that sound?”

“The rest?”

“Mm. Earthbound angels,” Crowley said. “And Fallen too. There’s a bunch of us, now. We need the few weeks to explain everything to you, so you don’t freak, okay?”

“Alright,” said Castiel, lifeless. What had those humans done to him?

There was a long slow moment as Aziraphale combed his fingers through Castiel’s feathers. The poor fellow didn’t thrum, too listless and too heartbroken. Crowley watched over them, Angel 1[2] and Angel 2, and he felt incredibly protective. He really did like Castiel, who now bore more resemblance to Raguel than he did to his former self. It wasn’t a good look for him.

And of course, _of course,_ that was when the floor bubbled just beyond the door in the next room. Castiel, soldier that he was, saw it first and sucked in a breath before jumping to his feet. He spread his disheveled wings wide, protecting Aziraphale behind him, and pulled out that bizarre blade of his as Belial rose from the boiling wood like pus from a wound.

“ _For the love of--!_ ” Crowley hissed, leaping to his feet. “BELIAL! What have I told you about showing up unannounced?”

“My Lord Crowley,” Belial growled, solidifying. “I have grave news.” He looked at Crowley expectantly.

“I’m not giving you sweets! You just broke a rule, you prat! No sweets if you break rules!”

Belial wilted.

“There’s a twenty-seventh hole,” he said sullenly.

“ _What_?”

“My Lord, there is a twenty-seventh hole. My Lord Marbas claims that there was a great Cataclysm in the place you call Nightmare World, and that this has caused another hole—a crack—to open up in the Square of the Mouth of Lies in Dis, in front of the Palace. The Viceroy Amducias has been investigating. He says it is growing. It’s absorbed Lucifer’s statue.”

Crowley clucked his tongue. “For the better, probably. That thing was embarrassing. Lucifer was embarrassed. We were all embarrassed.”

“The walls are unstable,” Belial insisted. “I have reports from my Lord Marbas that the spinning of the Circles has been disrupted. The new crack has destabilized them further. The holes _must_ be closed.”

“Well, I’ve been _telling_ Lucifer that, but does he listen? No. Of course not.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. “Did you put a dog in front of it?”

“Yes, sir. And Azazel did too.”

“Good. For _that,_ you get a lolly.” He tossed Belial the lolly, and he caught it, pleased. “What does Azazel say?”

“He’s gone to Lucifer, sir, to relay the same message. We figured it would save time.”

And by _we,_ idiotic Belial definitely meant _Azazel,_ who actually had an ounce of practicality to him.

Crap. If these two morons were freaking out, it had to be bad. If Amducias, Viceroy of the Sixth Circle was involved, it had to be _really_ bad. Also, Crowley realized, if Azazel and Belial met, they probably fought. Belial was one of the biggest, baddest demons in Hell, but those that could, like Azazel, liked to beat up on him. “Wings. Show me your wings.”

Belial fidgeted. “I’m fine.”

“Liar. _Wings._ ”

Belial stretched out his wings morosely. On the right one, a great handful of orange coverts had been torn out. It was bleeding sluggishly.

Crowley sighed. He tossed Belial another lolly. “I’m going to tell Lucifer. Not about you; about Azazel being a vicious bastard. You’re my subordinate now and I won’t stand for this. Clear?”

“Yessir.”

“Okay. Ah—” An idea occurred to him. “Hey, Castiel, who’s in charge of the other Hell? Anyone I can reason with, or is it just pure evil?”

Castiel was still holding his blade, still standing defensively in front of Aziraphale. He looked completely bewildered. “There was a time when that was the case,” he said roughly. “But these days our Hell has no ruler.”

Belial perked up.

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” Crowley said, pointing at him. “You have no idea what Nightmare World is like. It’s called that for a reason. Besides, I like you. We’ll go far, you and me.” Not technically a lie. Belial had already traveled far to get here. Also, the flight to LA was quite far, as humans measured things.

“We could loan a king,” Belial said to Crowley. “Make a truce. Maybe Nightmare World has resources that we don’t.”

“Did you know,” Crowley said mildly, “That the Empty spent some time in Nightmare World? The Shadow, I mean. And the Darkness[3] did, too.”

All the color drained out of Belial’s face.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “Place is terrifying. Don’t go there. Go back Downstairs and gather anyone able-bodied enough to help and go to Marbas. Ask what it needs to keep things moving, my orders. And keep things moving.”

Belial nodded, both lollies in his mouth. “Yessir.” And he vanished in a blaze of bubbling floorboards.

“Well,” Crowley said, “We’re dead.”

“Crowley, what kind of promotion did you _get_?” Castiel growled. He kept his wings sprawled in front of Aziraphale, like he was protecting him from Crowley. It made Crowley itch somewhere in his half-preened coverts. He wanted to growl back at Castiel; he would _never_ hurt Aziraphale. He never could.

He stifled those instincts. “Left Hand,” Crowley said faintly, instead. “It’s Left Hand. I’m Lucifer’s highest advisor.”

“You’ve been dealing with Lucifer,” Castiel breathed, and the betrayal in his voice tore at Crowley’s heart.

“He’s completely different to your Lucifer, Castiel dear,” Aziraphale said quickly. He was standing on tiptoe to see above Castiel’s brown wings. “I was skeptical too. I assure you, it’s quite different. Your Lucifer went mad in the cage, you see. Ours broke free very quickly and stayed sane.”

“So he is sane and evil. Aziraphale, that is not better.”

“Not evil.” Crowley said softly. “He’s not, not how the humans define it, anyway. He doesn’t hurt people.”

“He is Lucifer,” Castiel snapped. “Hurting people is his job.”

“He fell in love,” Aziraphale said. “For real. With a human woman. I can feel it, Castiel. She’s a detective in the LAPD. She is quite lovely. They solve murders together. I assure you, he is not what you think.”

“He adopted like a million humans,” Crowley added. “I mean. It’s embarrassing, how many humans he has. You have what, two? Normal number. Lucifer used to have _six,_ but one died on him, and now he has five. And it’s all real and genuine; Aziraphale will tell you. Or—he doesn’t have to; you can feel it for yourself.”

Castiel was shaking his head, eyes wide and traumatized. “He _killed me. Twice._ In my world. He _possessed_ me!”

Well that—was completely horrifying. Angels could possess angels? How many angels could you fit in one body before it gave out on you? Didn’t it get crowded in there? That was a terrible thought. Crowley shuddered.

“Different man,” Aziraphale told him gently.

“Not a man,” Castiel said. He sounded absolutely betrayed. “Maybe I should—”

“Do not,” Aziraphale snapped, finally at the end of his patience, “Even think about it. This is your home, Castiel, and I am not about to let you _walk out_ just because we’re having an argument! What on earth did those humans _teach_ you?”

“What would you have me do, Aziraphale?” Castiel whirled to face Aziraphale, his back to Crowley, real anger in his voice now. “If you’ve been somehow—corrupted—”

“What you’re going to do is put that blade away,” Crowley said sharply. “Right now. Castiel.”

He’d had it out the entirety of Belial’s visit, and hadn’t put it down. That thing could kill angels. Castiel’d had his back to Aziraphale before, but now he was facing him, and Crowley didn’t like that thing that close to his angel.

Castiel looked over his shoulder and said nothing.

“Please,” Crowley added, real fear in his voice. Even he could hear it. “Please don’t hurt him. Castiel, please put it away.”

Castiel shook. He dropped the blade abruptly and it clattered to the floor. “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he told Crowley. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he added to Aziraphale.

“Of course not, dear,” Aziraphale said softly. He cupped Castiel’s cheek. “Of course not. Let us deal with Lucifer and Hell later, shall we? Why don’t I finish your wings, and you can take a nice shower, and then you can sleep for however long you like. I assure you, Lucifer and his minions will keep. There is no threat there. Our universe is not your universe.”

Castiel nodded against his palm, too tired to do anything but trust[4]. “Alright.”

“I need to call LA,” Crowley told Aziraphale. “I need to talk to—the holes, angel—”

Aziraphale guided Castiel back into the chair. “Yes, you do. Go on. Use the landline downstairs.”

Crowley nodded. He looked back at poor Castiel, slumped and half-way broken on that chair. He’d never liked the Winchesters, Crowley thought bitterly. He’d only known them through letters but look at what they’d done to poor Castiel. Chewed him up and spat him out. Bastards.

He scooped up Castiel’s blade – didn’t want him getting any ideas -- and slipped downstairs.

It was heavy in his hand, the sword. Well balanced, even he could feel that. It had tasted angel blood, he could feel that too, and it had killed demons. It was well used. It gave him the chills, how well-used it was, but then, Crowley had never been a soldier.

Still. He knew Nightmare World was a place where angels killed angels, and demons killed everyone, but it was disturbing. Lucifer had outlawed murder in Hell. It was illegal for angel stock to kill angel stock. Oh, you could torture someone to oblivion, but send them to the Great Empty? No. Angels and demons were not _made_ to die.

A weapon forged in Heaven to kill celestials of all kinds was kind of fundamentally horrifying to behold, much less, like, actually hold. Be held. Whatever. Still, it wasn’t like Aziraphale’s sword wasn’t exactly the same, Crowley reminded himself.

But Aziraphale’s sword was Aziraphale’s, and it was all—on fire. Grand and ceremonial and stuff. It looked the part. Crowley was fairly certain that this thing didn’t light up. It was just so—utilitarian. Like a stapler. Commonplace. Disturbing. He carefully put it down on the angel’s desk. At least it wasn’t in the same room as Aziraphale anymore. That had been—frightening.

He let out a breath and looked at the phone. 

Castiel would probably hear this entire conversation, he thought, but that was—that could be for the better. He sat at Aziraphale’s desk, and he dialed Lucifer.

_______________

[1] It was made from three stalks of dried and preserved papyri, braided tightly together and fused with carefully, carefully melted gold at the tip. Crowley loved that dowel.

[2] Aziraphale was Angel 1. Obviously.

[3] From what Crowley could tell, based off letters from Castiel and his own experience, there was one God, who created many universes. The siblings of God, therefore, were likely also singular. Of course, the Darkness had spent a great deal of time in their world, once upon a time. She’d sat outside the Silver City. Lucifer used to talk to her. Crowley had watched from a high wall, once. Her name was Amara. At the time, he’d thought it was a pretty name. Him Above had apparently banished her to parts unknown after the Fall, according to Aziraphale. Castiel said she was in the Mark of Cain in their world. Weird place.  
  
The Empty, the Shadow, that place angels went when they died and the thing that ruled it, were too terrifying to even bear thinking about. 

[4] There was little left to live for, anyway. His humans no longer cared for him. He would much rather die by Aziraphale’s hand than anyone else’s, to be honest.


	3. Chapter 3

“We’re dead,” Lucifer said, by way of greeting.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Crowley replied. “I guess Azazel spoke to you? I just sent Belial to Marbas to keep everything, you know, spinning.”

Lucifer came up short. “Oh. That was clever.”

“Sometimes, I’m clever,” Crowley drawled.

“Yes. That’s why I hired you. We need to get to London Below, now, Crowley. If Dad is throwing a, a fit somewhere else, the cracks need to be fixed quickly before it bleeds through to here.”

That was a deeply horrifying prospect that hadn’t really occurred to Crowley. Was that even possible? Crowley definitely didn’t want to be smote because of proximity. “Not like I haven’t been telling you that we need to fix the holes for the past few years,” Crowley said faintly. “But we need an anchor, a carrier. It’ll cost Door her mind, as it stands.”

“I could—ask—Belial?” Lucifer grimaced.

“Please don’t ask Belial, Belial’s a moron; he’ll get distracted midway through.”

“But who else is there, Crowley? I haven’t a witch on staff. Azazel is strong but his mind is fractured. Asteroth was my best demon!” 

“You could ask Adam,” Crowley said, for the eighth time.

He could feel Lucifer’s scowl over the phone. “Crowley. It was a decent idea, but I have looked into it. I have had Maze _and_ Azazel look into it. He will go mad, just like the Lady Door, without a carrier. He is alive. Living things have no place in Hell.”

Crowley grimaced. “What about a Shifter?”

“We’ve been through this. Shifters can’t do magic, and moreover, I wouldn’t trust Paul[1] as far as I could throw him.”

“You could throw him pretty far,” Crowley drawled. “You’re Lucifer Morningstar.”

“Not helping.”

“Sorry. Sorry—I really don’t know what to do, boss. If we call up Door, we’ll destroy her mind, you know that, and that’s not a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“Even to save the world, Crowley? If this thing blows, it’s all of us[2].”

Crowley chewed his lip. “What about Amenadiel?”

Lucifer scoffed. “I’m not going to ask Amenadiel.”

“Even to save the world, Lucifer?” Crowley drawled.

“Touché.” Lucifer blew out a breath. “Truth be told, the demons of Hell know about Amenadiel. The Greater Demons remember him. They’ll tear him apart, no matter how strict my orders[3].”

That—was not a bad point. Aziraphale might be able to carry the spell, too, but—well, he had healed from Naomi sometime last year, but Crowley didn’t want to risk anything disrupting that particular balance. They might not have a choice though.

“Look,” Crowley said, “Give me a day or two to talk to Castiel. He’s from Nightmare World, he might have some ideas that we don’t, yeah?”

“Normally I’d be all for that, but there’s that twenty-seventh crack, Crowley. The reports from Amducias say it’s growing. That really doesn’t look good.”

“I know—we’re screwed. I can—look through Aziraphale’s library again. Can you ask your humans?”

“My humans have no concept of Hell, and I would like to keep it that way.”

“You’d be surprised. They’re cleverer than we are, yeah? Ask. Ella might have an idea. She strikes me as someone with a bunch of esoteric knowledge.”

Lucifer chuckled fondly. “True. Alright. I’ll ask.” He hesitated. “What about—our own hedgewitches?”

“I refuse to call John Constantine, Lucifer,” said Crowley. “Do you know what that man does to demons like me?”

“I am aware, trust me.” Crowley could hear the scowl in his voice. “Alright. I can give you a day. Ask Castiel. Unless you can carry it?”

A spell like that? “No,” said Crowley with a shudder. “It would fail halfway. I wasn’t high-born like the rest of you bastards.”

“We make our own destinies in Hell,” Lucifer said haughtily. That was his way of saying, _I don’t care that you weren’t born a Cherub or a Seraph or a Throne; I still like you enough to promote you._

Crowley smiled, a little touched. “Yeah. I’ll let you know what Castiel says.”

“Good.” He rung off.

Crowley sighed. They were so screwed. They definitely needed the Lady Door, and they definitely bloody needed Adam.

He scooped up Castiel’s awful blade again and headed back upstairs. Poor old Castiel wasn’t thrumming, but his eyes were closed, cheek resting on his arms as he sat backwards in a tall chair. Aziraphale was preening him. He looked up when Crowley came in and put a powder-down covered finger to his lips. Castiel had fallen asleep.

Crowley put the sword on a table, and then slipped in beside Aziraphale. Gently, he pulled at the leading edge of Castiel’s right wing, spreading it. He summoned his dowel and got to work. 

It looked awful. The built-up knots of powder-down crumbled in his fingers, and the feathers were in disarray. There were a few bent tertiaries, and one of his secondaries was bent, too. They’d have to be clipped, and it would hurt.

“He’s in bad shape,” Crowley murmured to Aziraphale, who was working on the left wing still. It was so bad that the preening was going to take hours, even with both of them working.

“He is,” Aziraphale sighed. “And look at this, Crowley—” he slipped two fingers under a tertiary feather. Crowley leaned in to see.

The feather looked fine—except that the tip had gone ragged. It wasn’t broken-ragged.

It was Falling-ragged.

There were a few different types of Falling. The first, of course, was forcibly kicked out of Heaven for some kind of offence – this had happened to Crowley and Lucifer. It was an Act of God. God had expelled the Six-Hundred-Sixty-Six angels who had followed Lucifer; Crowley had, for all his airy claims of sauntering, nose-dived into a pit of boiling Sulphur. Not fun, but he hadn’t lost his sense of self, or any of his powers.

The second kind wasn’t really Falling in the strictest sense. When an angel lost his faith, or his purpose, or just his way, his wings might disintegrate, and he lost his powers[4]. He didn’t become mortal precisely, but he could definitely be killed. This was the self-actualizing kind of Fall, and it was what Castiel was doing. 

“Oh, no,” breathed Crowley.

Aziraphale petted the ragged edge. “I don’t know what we can do about this,” he murmured. “This is—utter despair, Crowley.”

“Preening,” Crowley said. “Lots of preening. And people. He needs to find a, a purpose with us. A place to belong.”

“I should call Amenadiel,” Aziraphale said. “He’s gone through this, and he’s the Eldest. He might know.”

“Or Linda, maybe,” Crowley said. He combed his fingers through Castiel’s brown, banded coverts. Now that he was looking for it, he could see the ragged edges of the other feathers. This was bad.

“Linda could be good,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “She certainly helped me. Poor thing,” he murmured. “And they’re such pretty feathers, too.”

They _were_ pretty feathers. Brown-on-brown, like the martial eagles Crowley had seen that time he had traveled down the Nile with Bakt and Masaharta. Good memories, those. Crowley combed through the coverts carefully, and then lifted them with his dowel. The powder-down was all matted.

Castiel stirred.

“It’s alright,” Crowley told him in a murmur. “Just me, Pigeon. Just me[5].”

Castiel settled.

Aziraphale quirked a brow[6].

“He’s totally a pigeon. Look at this mess!” He pulled out a whole handful of powder-down.

“He’s an eagle, by coloration,” Aziraphale said.

“If you start calling me a raven again, I’m going to call you a dove, and I know you hate that, so can we not?”

“I am a Cherub, Crowley,” Aziraphale said haughtily, though there was an amused twinkle in his eye. “I am a soldier, and I have four wings. I am not a dove.”

“You’re a mutant swan covered in dust, is what you are.” Crowley grinned at Aziraphale, who scowled at him.

“What did Lucifer say?”

“Lucifer said we’re fucked.”

“Language!”

“Well. We’re screwed, then. I’m to ask for Castiel’s advice when he wakes.”

“If you feel like it.”

“If I feel like it,” Crowley echoed. “And if Castiel feels like it. Lucky for everyone, I feel like it. I don’t want to be overrun by Nightmare World, do you?” 

Aziraphale shook his head sadly. “This is all such a mess, Crowley,” he said, dark.

“We’ll get there, angel. We’ll get there.” He said it with much more confidence than he actually felt, and by the way Aziraphale looked at him, he knew it, too.

They preened Castiel for hours. They clipped his bent feathers and laid flat the crooked ones. The sun was rising by the time they were finished, and still Castiel slept. He even slept through the clipping, which was saying something; clipping pinched. Those ragged edges were worrisome, but there wasn’t much they could do about it now.

They got him up into the bed together and then left him to sleep on his stomach, brown wings folded neatly on his back. Aziraphale left a cup of cocoa for him, miracled never to grow cold.

Together they went to the sofa in the back room, and Crowley curled up close to Aziraphale. Aziraphale wrapped warm arms around him and thrummed, soft and slow. It took Crowley, ear pressed against his heart, a while to realize it was a song, and that the song was familiar. Aziraphale rarely sang, because he had a rather surprising, deep baritone that could slip into flat out bass. This was strange for an angel—angels usually sang in bell-clear altos and light tenors with incredible ranges. Aziraphale’s range went from low to lower, and he was self-conscious, but Crowley liked it.

“And I think to myself,” Aziraphale murmured, low, soft song, “What a wonderful world.”

1967\. Aziraphale had finally learned something that happened after 1950. Would wonders never cease. He ran a warm hand down Crowley’s spine, slow and easy, and the world faded, just for a little while.

“Sing the rest,” Crowley murmured sleepily.

“I see skies of blue,” Aziraphale sang, obliging him in the most bastardly way possible, “And clouds of white—bright blessed day, and dark, sacred night—”

Crowley pinched him. He chuckled, and continued, “And I think to myself—what a wonderful world—”

The sun rose. Crowley could feel its rays on his skin, but that was it, because he’d fallen half-asleep. He was dimly aware of Aziraphale cuddling him close while he cracked open a book, but that was it. He slept, far more easily than he should have, given the situation in Hell, but Aziraphale was there, and that meant things were alright, for the time being.

_____________

[1] This was true. But Lucifer also didn’t want to put the idea of Hell into Paul Slater’s mind. He was a clever boy—man, really—and very ambitious. Lucifer enjoyed these qualities, but he still didn’t want to inadvertently teach him to pop in and out of Hell, the way a Shifter could pop in and out of The Middle Place, which looked like a big long hallway and served as a kind of waiting room before a dead soul reached its destination. Dull place, that. 

[2] This was mostly a rhetorical question. There was no way Lucifer would ever willingly destroy an innocent life.

[3] Most of them were still furious about the Fall. Amenadiel could walk just outside the Gates, or sit in the fortified palace in the Ninth Circle and be perfectly fine, but deep in the heart of Hell? The center square of Dis? Lucifer wouldn’t be able to stop them.

[4] There was a complicated version of this happening to Raguel, but Raguel kept those sad tertiary feathers, because he had a firm conviction that he had never Fallen like Lucifer had. And his Function was not entirely willing, so it came back sometimes. He was doing better since he adopted a bunch of dogs, though. Crowley had had the thought to get him a Hellhound – a dog that wouldn’t die on him. Might do him some good.

[5] Crowley liked Castiel. He liked Castiel a great deal. Before, Castiel was always going to return to that awful Nightmare World. Now that he was staying for good, Crowley was free to adopt him for real. Aziraphale was his angel, his darling mortal enemy, and that would never change, but Castiel was fuzzy and disheveled like an eyas. Crowley was an excellent Nanny, and he was up for the job. 

[6] About time, Aziraphale thought. Crowley had clearly decided to adopt Castiel. Aziraphale had bloody adopted him the second Crowley had hit him with his Bentley, all those years ago. Poor fellow needed looking after.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley woke to careful footsteps. He stirred drowsily against Aziraphale, who thrummed and hushed him. Aziraphale had ended up with his back against the sofa’s armrest, and Crowley sprawled on his chest like a pointy blanket. Crowley blinked, his cheek pressed close against Aziraphale’s soft jumper.

Castiel was standing in the doorway, wings fidgeting awkwardly on his back. His eyes were on Crowley’s. Crowley realized belatedly that he’d taken off his sunglasses last night, long before Castiel had arrived.

“I—didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. He sounded puzzled.

“S’alright.” He pushed himself up from Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him for a moment, and then loosened.

“Would you like breakfast?” Aziraphale asked Castiel.

“It is one in the afternoon,” said Castiel, apologetic.

“Lunch, then.” Crowley yawned hugely.

Castiel ruffled and unruffled his wings. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “For—” He flicked his right wing, making his meaning clear.

“Always, dear, you know that,” Aziraphale said. He sounded concerned. 

Crowley searched Castiel’s face. Castiel was looking from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again.

“You’re still—” he said, “Still—”

“Together? In love?”

“Angel,” groaned Crowley, embarrassed.

“Yes,” said Castiel.

“Of course. What gave you the impression that we weren’t?”

Castiel fidgeted again. “I found it—uncommon,” he said carefully. “Creatures that hurt people; creatures that willingly worked for Lucifer or Michael. They did not often love. Sometimes—but not often.”

Abruptly, Crowley understood where he was going with this. “You’re worried that we’ve somehow been corrupted by Lucifer, and you think that if that were the case, we couldn’t—you know—” he gestured awkwardly.

“Love,” Castiel said, not embarrassed. “But I could feel it from upstairs. That you love each other.”

“You should get a load of Lucifer and his detective,” Crowley told him wryly. “That one will knock you off your feet, so I’m told.” He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“He loves her quite a bit,” Aziraphale agreed. “And vice versa, of course. It was one of the reasons I began to trust him. He loves her selflessly. They can perform a paradox, you know. That takes absolute trust, and absolute equality. The paradox is why I trust him now, in truth.”

“Paradox,” Castiel echoed. “What you did to my tie.”

“We’re way better at it now,” Crowley said earnestly. But he didn’t really want to offer to show it off; he didn’t want to see the scandalized look on Castiel’s face. Though it would be funny, he’d just woken up, Aziraphale was all warm beside him, and he was in no mood for it.

Castiel cocked his head a little, clearly curious. “And your—your Lucifer can perform one. And so you trust him.”

“You can only do a paradox if you’re honest, with yourself and the other guy,” Crowley said with a shrug. “I trusted Lucifer when he set me free[1]. Took Aziraphale a little longer. But that he can do a paradox with his human goes a long way.”

Castiel looked thoughtful, but he said nothing.

“Enough of that, though,” Aziraphale said. “Would you like lunch, dear?”

Castiel perked up a little[2]. Brat. Those boys of his lived on fast food; Castiel wouldn’t admit it, but he liked the finer things. He had a remarkably expensive palette and would outright refuse sub-par food. It was one of the things Crowley liked about him. “Yes,” he said.

“There’s a new sushi place down the street,” Crowley suggested, because Aziraphale adored sushi in general and that new place in particular. As well he should. It was remarkably expensive, so Crowley figured that Castiel would like it.

Castiel frowned but said nothing.

“Oh, but you’ve had it before!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “We gave you sushi the last time you were here, remember, dear?”

“I had it in my world afterward. Sam got sick,” Castiel admitted.

“Yikes,” Crowley said. “It won’t be anything like that. There’s nothing worse than bad sushi.” He got himself to his feet, miracled new clothes and some new sunglasses. He offered a hand to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took it and stood. “Dear,” he said, “Where is Watchdog?”

Castiel fidgeted.

“Castiel,” Crowley growled, “What did you do to my dog?”

“I did not hurt it, as you requested,” said Castiel stiffly. “I—miracled a cage.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake,” Crowley muttered. “Show me.” He rolled his shoulders.

Castiel frowned, but he led Crowley in silence back through the bookshop and up the stairs. Past the landing, and they hit the sitting room.

“Oh, no,” Crowley moaned, and jogged up to his poor dog.

Watchie was crammed in a very small wire cage. When she saw Crowley, she whined high and sad. Her tail, sticking out between the bars, thumped against the carpet. Around the cage Castiel had—painted? Burned? Three spell circles to keep her contained. He didn’t recognize them, but they were strong. He scuffed breaks in them with his boot[3]. Watchdog’s whining got more enthusiastic.

“Alright, Watchie, alright,” Crowley murmured, kneeling next to the bars. “Let’s get you out of here, okay? But you have to promise me something first.”

Her warm brown eyes promised him the moon and beyond. 

“This is a huge misunderstanding, and you can’t attack Castiel, okay? That angel there.” He pointed to Castiel, who had drifted to one side of the room.

Watchdog snarled.

“Stop. He made a mistake, and now we’re correcting it, okay? Promise me.”

She wuffled, acquiescing.

“Good girl.” Carefully, methodically, he got her out, miracling away sections of the cage to set her free as easily as possible. She wriggled out of the remains and jumped on him excitedly. Her paws went to his shoulders as he knelt – not a difficult feat; she could do that while he stood, too – and she licked his chin up to his forehead, delighted.

Castiel choked. Crowley saw him; he’d taken a step forward, groping for his sword, which was in the other room.

“She’s not going to hurt me, Castiel,” Crowley said. He shook off his dog and stood.

Watchdog growled, but she slunk around and behind Crowley, cowering a little[4].

“She—licked you,” Castiel said, puzzled.

“Yeah. She’s got the word ‘dog’ in her name – she behaves like a dog. She’s not going to let you pet her until you apologize. I think you scared the crap out of her.” Crowley scowled a little. He did really like Castiel, but scaring his dog was not okay.

“Pet her,” Castiel echoed, baffled.

“Yes, pet her. She is my pet. She is a _good dog._ ” Watchdog’s tail wagged, thumping against Crowley’s leg from behind, high on his thigh.

“You have a Hellhound for a pet,” Castiel said, again.

“Is—has something come loose? Yes. I have a Hellhound for a pet. Her job is to guard me and Aziraphale, and also humanity, if she can manage it. She loves humans. You might have to redeem yourself a bit; that cage was a bit much, Pigeon.”

Castiel blinked at him. “I’m not a pigeon.”

“I’ve seen your wings; you bet you are. Now, apologize to my dog so we can all get lunch.”

Castiel looked both insulted and intrigued. “Watchdog,” he said, low and gravelly. “I am—sorry. In my world, Hellhounds are vicious beasts.”

Watchie peered out from behind Crowley. She looked up at him, eyes questioning. “He’s telling the truth, pup,” Crowley said. “Nasty things, Nightmare World Hounds[5]. He overreacted. Want to go say hi, so it doesn’t happen again?”

Watchdog whined and cowered at Crowley’s back.

“She’s never been in a cage before,” Crowley explained to Castiel. “You might have to come over here.”

Castiel looked hesitant, but he did approach. Watchie cowered and cowered, but Crowley reached down and stroked her silly pointed ears. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “It’s just old Castiel. He overreacts sometimes. You wag your tail and look harmless when he does, okay? Or you come get me. He’s a soldier, you see. Got PTSD coming out of his ears. It’s okay.”

“I do not have PTSD coming out of my ears,” Castiel protested gruffly.

“Yeah you do,” Crowley drawled.

Castiel frowned down at the dog.

“Offer her your palm to smell,” Crowley instructed. Castiel hesitated, and then he did as told.

Watchie inched forward and sniffed his palm. She licked him, more curious than enthused. Castiel jerked back.

“Good girl,” Crowley murmured, and Watchie wagged and wagged her tail at him.

“That was good?” Castiel blurted. He wiped his hand on his trousers.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that was ‘dog’ for hello. Come on, I want breakfast.”

Looking baffled, Castiel led the way back downstairs. He glanced over his shoulders a few times, paranoid. Poor fellow.

Watchdog stuck close to Crowley’s side, still wary. Crowley couldn’t really blame her. That was some horrifying cage Castiel had stuck her in. But Castiel was from Nightmare World, where everything was awful. Of course, anything from his imagination, such as it was, would be awful, too.

They tromped back to the back room. Aziraphale was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a book meditatively. Watchie bolted from Crowley’s side to Aziraphale, all big sad eyes, asking for cuddles. Ridiculous dog.

Next to him, Castiel started.

“She’s not going to hurt him, Castiel,” Crowley murmured. “She loves Aziraphale. Look.”

Aziraphale scratched her ears and she hopped up on the sofa, regardless of Crowley’s constant orders to get off it, and snuggled close. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around her fondly.

“Did Crowley free you from a cage?” he murmured, and when she whined, he scratched her great neck. “I thought so, there’s a love. It’s alright now.” She leaned into him unhappily.

“I think you traumatized my dog,” Crowley told Castiel.

“She is a Hellhound!” Castiel spluttered.

“Not your average Hellhound, dear,” Aziraphale said, still scratching Watchie, who was trying to creep onto his lap despite being objectively enormous. “She is our Hellhound. Crowley Named her. You could say she’s a reflection of her masters, isn’t that right, Crowley?”

“Something like that,” Crowley said.

Castiel sucked in a breath, as though finally understanding. “She is a reflection of you,” he echoed.

“Of her Name,” said Crowley. “But also of us, yeah, kind of. I mean, I did name her.”

And he could see it on Castiel’s face: he believed him. And he finally understood. “I am so sorry,” he said wretchedly. “In our world Hellhounds are vicious; they’re killers, they drag souls to Hell—”

“Here too, sometimes,” Crowley said calmly. “It depends on their Names, though. Watchdog isn’t Named for something like that.”

“I see,” Castiel said. “And she was never—forged in fire or pain?”

“ _Watchie?_ ” Crowley shuddered at the thought. “No. No. I’ve had her from a puppy. Even before I Named her, she was treated well, by anyone’s standards, not just Hell’s.”

“Our world is not your world, dear,” Aziraphale said gently. “The rules are different. Everything is different. You know this.”

“Yes,” said Castiel. “I—yes. I am sorry.”

Watchdog peeked at Castiel from beside Aziraphale. She pricked her ears at him.

“I am sorry,” Castiel told her again, and he clearly meant it this time.

Cautiously, she wagged her tail. She slipped from Aziraphale’s lap and trotted up to Crowley, who was standing next to Castiel. Cautiously, still pressed close to Crowley, she sniffed at Castiel’s shoes. Castiel went very still.

“Hold out your hand again,” Crowley said dryly, and Castiel did.

Up came Watchie’s head, and soon enough Castiel was patting her, carefully.

“She likes when you scratch the base of her ears,” Aziraphale said, rising from the sofa. Crowley watched Castiel try it, and Watchie wagged her tail, now enthused.

Castiel let out an astounded breath. “Very different,” he said.

Aziraphale had bent down to pick up Dolly, Watchie’s rubber llama. “Watchdog,” he said. When she turned to look at it, her ears pricked forward. “Don’t want to forget this,” Aziraphale added with a wry smile.

“Yes, yes we do, that thing is embarrassing,” Crowley muttered, but he didn’t otherwise protest when Aziraphale tossed it. Watchie raced forward and snatched it out of the air before it hit the ground.

“What,” said Castiel.

“It’s her toy,” Crowley sighed. “If we leave without it, she’ll realize she doesn’t have it in the middle of lunch and either try to go home and get it, or just give up on life entirely, lie down, and howl until one of _us_ gets it.”

“Are you serious,” said Castiel.

“I’m afraid so,” said Aziraphale. “She can shatter light bulbs, howling.”

Castiel looked at them, back and forth, and for the first time since arriving, he smiled, and he settled.

Welcome home, Crowley thought, heartfelt, and he led the way to the sushi place.

_______________

[1] Kind of an exaggeration but being free definitely helped. Even now, as Left Hand, he could tell Lucifer to fuck off if he wanted to. It made all the difference.

[2] A different universe meant different rules. He had not realized this, the first time he had been here, at least, not until he had spent time as a human at home. Castiel did not taste every molecule in anything he ate, here. He was rather looking forward to eating, especially because Aziraphale was so discerning. Perhaps he knew a better version of peanut butter and jelly? Provided Aziraphale was not evil, of course. Castiel hoped not; he was terribly attached to Aziraphale.

[3]Or presumably it was a boot; Crowley wasn’t telling. 

[4] This was kind of ridiculous because she was, frankly speaking, an enormous dog, and way tougher than Crowley could ever hope to be. She had some serious teeth.

[5] Not that Crowley had ever really spent time with one, beyond a few glimpses in the hole-ridden Hell.


	5. Chapter 5

He almost forgot to ask Castiel about the holes in Hell.

It was just—they were having such a nice meal. Castiel did like the sushi, especially the eel. He looked at Crowley with big sad eyes until Crowley gave him permission to swipe from him. Brat. Aziraphale, of course, was also stealing from Crowley’s plate, so really Crowley was screwed. He was lucky Castiel was the sharing type because he got some back that way. And he was lucky he wasn’t actually human and actually hungry, either. Angels. Honestly.

Watchdog was lying sprawled under the table, begging Aziraphale fruitlessly for scraps. She didn’t ask Castiel. Poor girl was still a little traumatized, because generally she had no compunction.

They were all just finishing when Crowley’s phone rang. Again.

Lucifer.

“Oh, right,” Crowley said.

“Is it Lucifer?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “I was supposed to ask—but I forgot.” He huffed a sigh. “Do you mind if I put him on speaker? Might be more conducive to an actual conversation.”

“You want me,” Castiel said, “To talk to Lucifer. Lucifer killed me, Crowley. Lucifer _possessed_ me.”

“Not this Lucifer, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, resting a hand on his arm. “Give him a chance. He really isn’t what you think he is.”

Castiel frowned, but he nodded to Crowley. Crowley put the phone in the middle of the table next to the sushi and answered.

“Listen, boss, we’re in the middle of lunch,” Crowley said. “You’re on speaker.”

“Crowley, this is no time to eat!” Lucifer spluttered, tinny over the phone. “We are in the middle of a crisis!”

“It’s kept for nearly three years, Lucifer,” he sighed. “And it’s not like I haven’t told you about it before.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know what happened in Nightmare World, but _Lilith_ showed up on Chloe’s doorstep.” The last was hissed angrily.

“Oh, shit. Everyone okay?” Crowley asked.

“Yes of course everyone’s _okay,_ as if I would tolerate that witch anywhere near my humans,” Lucifer growled. “I took her to the house across the street; they’re away. She says the crack situation Downstairs has got worse!”

Lilith was both terrifying and a certified weirdo. She had tried for Lucifer’s throne too many times to count, and she’d even succeeded a time or two, kind of, except that only one of the Fallen could hold the position. The throne had literally set her on fire, more than once. “If she is complaining, it has to be bad. What happened?”

“Well, she says that their version of Belphagor was involved. She said that in Nightmare World, the bastard used her Crook[1]!”

“Oh shit,” said Crowley again. He looked at Castiel. “Is that true, Pidge?”

“That is a terrible nickname,” Castiel said dryly. “But yes, it is true. I—I killed him shortly after. He didn’t summon all the demons back to Hell, only most of them. Imps. I think.” He looked down and away.

“The famous Castiel!” said Lucifer over the phone. “You shouldn’t have killed him; I would have liked to give Maze a go. I think he broke our whole bloody world.”

“Why don’t we hear the whole story,” said Aziraphale. “Will you tell us the story, Castiel?”

Castiel looked down. “God killed Jack,” he said softly. “And Sam shot him. God, I mean.”

“Sam Winchester _shot_ Dad, seriously?” Lucifer interrupted, delighted.

“Shush,” Crowley told him, and gestured for Castiel to continue.

“God was angry. He tore open a chasm that led to Hell, letting the souls of Hell out. He called it Apocalypse Two,” Castiel continued morosely. “Belphagor came with them. He possessed Jack’s—body.” He swallowed.

“Gross,” commented Crowley, but Castiel continued.

“We were attempting to use the Crook to summon the escaped souls back into Hell. Once they were inside, Rowena, our witch, was going to close the gates and trap them. It failed, though, everything failed—I killed Belphagor, because he said he could use those souls to become a god himself—” Castiel choked and gulped, despair sitting heavy on his shoulders. Aziraphale rubbed his arm gently.

“But the chasm,” said Lucifer. “Did it close?”

“Yes,” managed Castiel. “I got out before it did. Jack is dead and Belphagor and Rowena[2] and Ketch—Dean—he—he doesn’t—” his breath caught again.

“Easy,” Crowley told him softly. “You’re home now, it’s alright.”

“The Cataclysm, Crowley,” Lucifer said. “That opened the crack in Dis. Dad's temper-chasm to Nightmare-Hell was probably it. Our Hell is so unstable; it must have torn right through.”

“Probably,” Crowley agreed. “What did Lilith say?”

“She saw a great crack in the Sixth Circle tear open, and a whole flock of imps, bearing signs of the Crook,” Lucifer replied. “It damages them if it’s not wielded correctly, apparently.” Crowley could hear the eyeroll. “But they did attack Oriax. She nearly lost a wing.”

Crowley sucked in a breath. He didn’t really know Oriax, who was one of the Six-Hundreds-Sixty-Six Fallen, a Greater Demon. He did know that she was a sad creature, with ash-grey wings, who sat on the highest mountain in Hell, on the edge of Purgatory, and dreamed of stars. She sang mournful songs that could drive a man mad, but she was not a particularly evil sort of demon.

“Is she alright?”

“How the Hell should I know? I’m just going by Lilith’s report.”

“Lucifer,” sighed Crowley. “Where are the imps now?”

“They’re in Hell! I sent Paimon[3] to corral them but she’s just got the three legions. The Lilim are after them, too, but they’re all disorganized without mummy, since mummy was with me. I booted her back Down so maybe they’ll be able to bloody function. I’d send Belial but—”

“Belial would just make it worse and you know it,” Crowley drawled. “He and his legion of Lesser Demons are better off guarding the holes. Thinking is not his strong suit. That’s Azazel’s purview.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Lucifer said. “So, Castiel of Nightmare World, now you know that our Hell is riddled with holes that lead to your Hell. Apparently, Dad’s lost what little mind he had left and now he’s on another smashing spree. Surprise, surprise. Any idea how to close them, before he smashes our world, too? Or, if not, are you of sufficient rank to carry a fairly large spell?”

Castiel blinked. He looked at Crowley. “You haven’t closed them yet?”

“Asteroth’s dead, long story,” Crowley said. “We didn’t have anyone to carry the spell.”

“Surely you can—” he said.

“I am not high-born, you brat,” Crowley said, but fondly. “It’ll collapse on top of me. And if Aziraphale goes to Hell—”

“What little equilibrium I have restored might be in jeopardy,” Aziraphale said uneasily. “I will do it if I absolutely must, but it still might fail.”

“So, what about you, Castiel? Are you high-born?” Lucifer asked over the phone.

“ _Lucifer—_ ” Aziraphale hissed _._

“Do you want to die in one of Dad’s Almighty temper tantrums? Because _I do not_ ,” Lucifer snapped. “And my humans should not have to live in paradoxed houses because Nightmare World is bleeding into this one. That is absurd. So? Castiel? What is your rank?”

Castiel hesitated[4]. “I am a Seraph,” he said slowly. “Though the ranking system on my world is different than it is on yours. I need to see the spell.”

“Good answer,” said Lucifer. “Come to LA.”

“Boss,” Crowley growled. “We should just call Adam—”

“Call Adam, then, Crowley!” Lucifer snapped. “Adam is alive! He has the same problem as the Lady Door!”

“He can shape reality,” Aziraphale said, surprised.

“On _Earth_ ,” said Lucifer. “Everything changes in Hell. I, for one, do not want to expose him. Who knows what he could become, if Hell twists his mind? He is a very impressionable boy, after all.”

“Oh dear,” murmured Aziraphale.

“Yes, _oh dear_!” hissed Lucifer. “Come to LA,” he added again.

“Lucifer, Castiel can’t go to LA,” Aziraphale bit out, voicing Crowley’s thoughts exactly. “He is fresh from Nightmare World and he’s experienced a great loss—he needs calm and quiet before we start dragging him about to meet the angels of Angel Network.”

“I am fine,” said Castiel. It was incredibly unconvincing.

“Liar,” said Crowley, wry.

“I would very much like calm and quiet too,” said Lucifer. “Or—well—no I wouldn’t, but police work and Lux are exciting enough. I do not want to die by some insane machination of Dad’s or by Nightmare imps. See _reason,_ Aziraphale.”

Crowley caught it this time: Castiel looked to Aziraphale. He was uncertain about Lucifer, Crowley realized, still following their – or rather Aziraphale’s – lead.

“I believe him, Castiel,” Crowley said lowly. “He doesn’t lie, this Lucifer.”

“What do you mean I don’t lie—of course I don’t lie—” Lucifer spluttered.

“Shush,” said Aziraphale. He looked at Castiel. “I believe him as well.”

“You just shushed Lucifer,” Castiel said, amused[5].

“Yes, and it was very rude!” Lucifer spluttered.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You’re not afraid of him,” Castiel breathed, looking at Crowley.

Crowley shook his head. “No,” he said, simply. “Nor Belial.”

“I keep telling you, Crowley, Belial is very stupid; you manage him just fine,” Lucifer said, exasperated.

Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “Look. I’m going to call you back, okay? Or—better—are you at Chloe’s, still?”

“No,” hissed Lucifer. “I went back to Lux because Azazel showed up after I got rid of Lilith. It’s like the worst party ever.”

“Seriously? Why is _he_ there?” said Crowley, sidetracked. He’d been wondering why Lucifer had called Paimon – usually Azazel was his go-to guy, if he really wanted things done.

Lucifer made a frustrated noise. “ _Because he’s having kittens, Crowley!_ ”

Crowley blinked down at his phone. “What, really?” It was bizarre, but who knew with demons.

“No, it’s an expression, you idiot. You’re supposed to be good at those sorts of things. Azazel’s on my bedroom floor having a _bleeding_ panic attack!” The last was hissed into the receiver.

“Azazel,” echoed Castiel, stunned, “is having a panic attack.”

“Not your Azazel, dear, yours is dead,” Aziraphale chimed in. Crowley slowly leaned forward and smacked his forehead on the table.

“Lucifer, we’re going to either show up on your balcony or I’m going to call you back,” he told the tabletop, and groped for his phone. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Crowley--!”

Crowley hung up on him.

“You just hung up on Lucifer,” Castiel said, a smile quirking his lips.

“Yep,” said Crowley.

“It’s an alternate reality,” Castiel murmured, like this was just occurring to him.

“Well, you knew that, dear,” said Aziraphale. “You’ve had run-ins with a few alternate realities, haven’t you?”

“Yes—yes. But Azazel. Prince of Hell. Having a panic attack on Lucifer’s floor and Lucifer calls _you?_ ” Crowley could feel Castiel’s eyes on him. “And you are not afraid?”

“Yeah, that’s the whole Left Hand—” Crowley started.

“Crowley. You are afraid of hunters. You are afraid of werewolves and vampires and witches and movies about the apocalypse. You are afraid that one day your plants will gain sentience and murder you in the night.”

“Hang on,” Crowley said, raising his head, indignant.

“Yet you are not afraid of _Lucifer_? Lucifer, Crowley?” 

“He’s not your Lucifer, Castiel,” Aziraphale said gently. “Your Lucifer was mad. This one is not. This one likes humans quite a bit, I assure you.”

“And,” Crowley said slowly, “He has never hurt me. Or Aziraphale. I’ve known him personally for a few years now.”

“He is the king of Hell,” Castiel said. “He is—evil by definition, Crowley.”

“Our definition,” Crowley said, now passionate. “He is evil by _our_ definition. He defines Evil, to celestials. The humans disagree. They ate of the Tree. I should know; I was there. We didn’t. Unless things are different in your world?”

Castiel shook his head. “No. We didn’t—no. What are you saying?”

“He’s saying the humans who know him don’t think he’s evil,” Aziraphale said. “We took our cue from them. They know better the difference between Good and Evil than we do, you know that. He has never killed a human, Castiel.”

“Nope—he killed Cain,” Crowley shrugged. “Because Cain threatened Chloe. And he felt so bad after it that he—well, that’s something we have to explain to you later, Castiel. Short version is that in this world, we can punish ourselves pretty well, and he definitely did that.”

“Cain. He killed—Cain,” Castiel echoed, incredulous.

“Yeah, that was before I met him for real, though,” Crowley said. “I hadn’t seen him since, you know, the Fall, before that.”

Castiel stared at him. It was unnerving. Finally, he said, “What do you think we should do?”

“We should fly to LA,” he said[6].

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“No, but we should. Someone needs to comfort Azazel, frankly, and if you—if you can carry the spell to close the holes, Castiel—” Crowley swallowed. They really needed those holes closed, but knowing what he did of Castiel, he added, “But you have to say no if you can’t. I mean it. There’s not much of a margin of error, here.”

Castiel frowned.

“My dear, he is exhausted,” Aziraphale said softly.

“True. We can rest up for a while if you want, Pidge. Lucifer actually can’t make demands of me. Long story.”

Castiel shook his head. “This is a danger to your world?”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. “Yes,” Crowley said, trying to apologize with his eyes, but it was hard with the sunglasses. He hoped Aziraphale saw anyway.

“Then we should go,” Castiel said.

“Alright,” Crowley said. “Alright. Let’s pay the bill, and then head over.”

________

[1] A crook is a hook-shaped staff usually associated with shepherds. Across universes, Lilith has one that can control imps, and therefore warrants a capital. Daydream Lucifer finds it annoying, but he never liked imps anyway. Nightmare Lucifer thought it was funny.

[2] Lucifer swore quietly to himself. A witch who could close chasms would be perfect! Bloody Nightmare World, killing all and sundry.

[3] Paimon was a weird one. Crowley did his best to steer clear, even now, because Paimon had a similar Function to Crowley, but she was higher born, and she led legions with knowledge and skill. She was extremely badass, also loyal, and also evil. Though she knelt to Lucifer—and therefore to Crowley—it was still fairly uncomfortable. She, like Azazel, was very competent, though she had a nasty streak, where Azazel was fairly impartial.

[4] Lucifer was not to be trusted. But nor did Hellhounds cry from their cages as Watchdog had, and nor did yellow-eyed demons smile and call their friends silly nicknames. Daydream World was indeed entirely different, but Lucifer was a big ask. Still, if their world was in danger, and if it was somehow Castiel’s fault, it was his duty to help. He was—going to look to his friends on this one.

[5] Castiel had also done that to Nightmare World’s Lucifer. But it was different for Aziraphale and Crowley, who were generally wary of the Higher Ups (or Lower Downs). Strange.

[6] After much therapy and Aziraphale accepting himself as a Cherub, he could fly across the Atlantic without losing his memory. This didn’t mean that Crowley wouldn’t be freaking out about Aziraphale’s state of mind the whole way.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun hadn’t quite risen yet in LA. Holding Watchdog by the scruff of her neck, Crowley touched down on Lucifer’s balcony. He set his dog on her feet gently.

The balcony wasn’t very big, but it was an easy miracle to make it big enough for himself and the two angels. Aziraphale let Castiel land first, and then carefully settled on the end. His four wings were far larger than both Castiel’s and Crowley’s. He banged one of his hindwings into the glass and hissed.

“Alright?” Crowley asked him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale gritted. He held one hindwing gingerly; that must have hurt. “This many wings is really very impractical.” His feathers ruffled and smoothed and he folded everything neatly on his back. Apparently he still wasn't quite used to having more than two wings yet. They hadn't flown much, some to think of it. Watchie sniffed at his primaries, concerned.

Crowley huffed. “Ready?” he asked Castiel.

“Just do it,” Castiel muttered.

Crowley drew himself up, and he pushed through the glass doors. “Boss?” he called.

“About time!” Lucifer bustled out of his bedroom. He looked absolutely harassed; his hair was a mess, his button-up shirt askew. He pulled a brass-colored feather out of his hair. “He is _crying_ , Crowley. This is typical. This is _so typical!_ ”

“Um. Why—is he crying?”

“He’s realized he’s a demon again!” snapped Lucifer, and practically bolted to the bar. Watchdog galloped up to him. He plucked out a milkbone from somewhere and offered it to her without breaking his stride. She put down her llama and crunched the treat. “He’s put two and two together and realized that not only is he fixing Hell, but he _wants_ to fix Hell[1] so we don’t all die. But he’s saving demons and I’m not bloody _Dad_.” He poured himself a Scotch and then tossed it back like a shot. That was a crime, Crowley thought, and absolute crime against such high-quality Scotch.

“I don’t get it,” Crowley said. Castiel shifted uncomfortably at his side.

“Azazel never accepted that he Fell,” Lucifer growled, pouring another glass. He poured three more after that and pushed one toward Crowley, who walked over to take it. “He is perfectly sane and perfectly competent as long as _no one reminds him he’s a demon._ ”

“Huh,” said Crowley. He sipped the Scotch. It was excellent stuff. “Boss, why does everyone in your inner circle have a few screws loose?”

“Because they’re better than literally everyone else, Crowley, honestly. You’ve met Hell; it’s awful.”

This was true. “What do you want me to do about it?” Crowley asked.

“Nothing. I think Aziraphale should sing him a Heavenly hosanna, or some nonsense. What do you say, Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “He won’t, er, attack me?”

“Not if I tell him not to. And he doesn’t really attack angels unless they start making fun of him. He’s a sensitive soul, old Azazel[2].”

“He’s Hell’s top general,” Crowley pointed out. “And a Prince, technically speaking. He’s feared in all nine circles.”

“And he’s very good at it, provided he’s not a heap on the floor. I had Belial fetch his bloody blankie. Will you sing to him, Aziraphale? Usually I do it, but I think it won’t take as long if you do, since you’re a bona fide angel.” He rolled his eyes.

“I—haven’t a very good voice,” said Aziraphale, self-conscious.

“I like your voice,” Castiel chimed in, bewildered[3].

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to you in a moment, Castiel[4],” Lucifer said impatiently. “Azazel won’t care about the quality of your voice. Just—be kind to him.” He shifted his weight awkwardly[5].

Aziraphale straightened. “That, I can do. In there?” He pointed to Lucifer’s bedroom.

Lucifer nodded, and Aziraphale went, easy as anything. He beckoned Watchdog, who hopped to her feet and followed at an enthusiastic gallop, llama in her mouth.

“If he gets hurt, I’m taking Belial and I’m starting a mutiny,” Crowley said pleasantly.

“You can have the throne if you want it,” Lucifer replied, wry.

“Not on your life,” Crowley snorted.

Lucifer smiled. From the other room, Aziraphale’s Enochian baritone drifted out in tendrils; a familiar lullaby. Crowley found it comforting down to his bones; hopefully, Azazel did, too. They needed Lucifer’s general.

“Crowley,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, Pigeon?”

“Crowley, this is _passing_ bizarre,” he said pitifully.

Crowley blinked, and then felt like a heel. “Right! I didn’t introduce you, did I? Sorry about that. Castiel, this is our Lucifer Morningstar. He fell in love with a human and owns the nightclub downstairs. It’s called Lux, because of course it is. Boss, this is Castiel, Thursday’s Angel, and the only angel in the Network who lives in Nightmare World. He’s got two humans – Sam and Dean Winchester – but at the moment they are being prats and have kicked him out for something he didn’t even do.”

“That’s humans for you,” Lucifer sighed. “Bloody impenetrable lot.” He nudged one of the glasses of Scotch toward Castiel.

Castiel frowned[6]. Tentatively, he picked up the Scotch and sniffed it. “You—truly aren’t like our Lucifer,” he said slowly.

“I should hope not,” Lucifer huffed. “Yours went mad, didn’t he? Never got out of that blasted cage, or so Crowley tells me.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. He sipped the Scotch, and then made a surprised, appreciative sound.

“Brat,” Crowley said fondly. “Has expensive tastes, this one,” he told Lucifer. “But he won’t admit it. Did you think that Lucifer Morningstar was going to serve a guest low-quality Scotch? Come on.”

“Did the other one do that?” Lucifer asked, aghast.

“He killed me,” Castiel said. “Twice.”

Some of the confidence drained out of Lucifer’s posture and he drew back, shocked. “Well, here you stand, so it couldn’t have been that bad, could it?”

“The first time God brought me back,” Castiel growled, real anger in his voice now. “The second, I went to the Great Empty, and irritated the Cosmic Entity into giving me another chance.”

Crowley blinked at him behind his glasses. What? Just—what? Castiel hadn’t said that before. He’d been to the _Empty_? He’d met the _Shadow_? The Shadow was a tale the Cherubs might tell a disobedient eyas when they wanted to scare it!

“ _You_ talked to the Shadow?” Lucifer said. His eyes gleamed[7]. “Seriously? It used to come ‘round, at the Beginning, you know,” he added to Crowley. “Growl at the baby Archangels, that sort of thing. That’s—well, I have to say that’s rather brilliant. And for what it’s worth—I have no desire to kill you.”

“Strange world,” muttered Castiel into his glass.

“I suppose there’s a reason yours is called Nightmare World,” Lucifer said wryly. “Now. Holes. Come with me.” He slipped from behind the bar and beckoned.

Crowley shared a glance with Castiel, and they followed him, away from the dining area and then behind, to Lucifer’s library. It was not, Crowley thought haughtily, as impressive as Aziraphale’s, of course, but it still wasn’t bad. Lucifer wandered up to a bookshelf and pulled something large and leathery from a shelf.

“That’s dragon hide,” Crowley blurted.

“Yes,” said Lucifer. He brought the book out to the dining room, thunked it on the table, and started flipping through the pages nonchalantly. “It was Asteroth’s.”

“Spell book,” Crowley told a bewildered Castiel. “Asteroth was a sorcerer. He was killed by Raguel – you’ll meet Raguel, he’s part of the Network; he couldn’t help it – after bringing that ghoul from your world over here.”

Lucifer made an unhappy sound. “This would all be over if Asteroth were still alive,” he grumbled.

“It still wasn’t Raguel’s fault,” Crowley told him.

Lucifer flipped dragon-hide pages and muttered several uncomplimentary things about angels under his breath. Castiel went stiff and offended next to Crowley[8].

“Here we are,” Lucifer said, finally. He looked up. “Do you know about the Lady Door, Castiel?”

Castiel looked to Crowley. That was a clear no.

“Lady Door is a human with special powers,” Crowley explained. “She can open and close any door. The original plan was to bring her to Hell so she could close the holes. Problem is, the living can’t walk into Hell without losing their minds. The spell that will let a human walk through Hell unharmed is difficult – it requires two parts. You need a caster, and a carrier. Lucifer is strong enough to do one of those parts. The other part—should have been Asteroth. I’m not strong enough to carry. Aziraphale’s mind is—fragile, still. The demons will attack Amenadiel because they remember him. Same goes for Michael, if Michael even responds. Azazel is—you know—also fragile. And Belial is dumb as a brick. That kind of exhausts our options[9].”

“This is the spell,” Lucifer said, pushing the book over to Castiel. “Can you carry it?”

“If not, be honest,” Crowley told him urgently. “A mistake will cost Door her sanity.”

“All this,” Castiel said slowly, “To preserve the sanity of one human?”

“Of course,” said Lucifer, offended. “What sort of beast do you take me for?”

Castiel blinked at him thoughtfully[10] and then looked down at the book. He ran his fingers over the Enochian, reading. He turned the page. There was a long, silent moment. Next to Crowley, Lucifer tapped his foot impatiently.

“I can do this,” Castiel said at last. “If it will help close the holes.” He looked to Crowley. “And if you trust him.”

“With my life,” Crowley said quietly. “With _Aziraphale’s_ life[11].”

Castiel nodded. “Then I’ll do it[12].”

“Excellent,” said Lucifer. “Let’s get Azazel back on track, because we’ll need him to keep the worst of it away from Lady Door. And then—we can fix it, finally.”

“Finally,” Crowley agreed, a strange combination of relief and concern washing over him. Strange, because he had been pushing Lucifer to close Hell’s holes, and to finally have a solution felt wonderful. But that concern tightened his heart, because Castiel still looked worried, and Lucifer neither knew nor particularly cared[13]. He didn’t want them at odds. Especially since Lucifer was going to completely lose his shit if he ever found out that Castiel was possessing a dead human.

Ugh. That meant he had to go to Hell with them, didn’t he? And Mazikeen, too. United front. Protect the Lady Door. Make a big show of it. And to top it off, Aziraphale would have to stay on Earth, lest his new-minted Cherub-brain go into attack mode.

He followed Lucifer, Castiel at his side, back to Lucifer’s sitting room, feeling a little dejected. No Aziraphale? Double ugh. This was going to be terrible. 

\----------------------------------

[1] It was the wanting that was the problem. Azazel, generally speaking, knew that he was Fallen. Lucifer was his God now, and that was mostly alright; every demon in Hell could tell him he was damned and cast out and he wouldn’t bat an eye, because he served Lucifer. But sometimes, he would remember, or be reminded, that his allegiance was Hell, and that he was really and truly loyal to Hell, and that there had been another God once, and on those rare occasions, he tended to have nervous breakdowns. Usually in Lucifer’s lap. Bloody Azazel.

[2] Not 100% true. Azazel was pretty vicious. But he was a pussycat for Lucifer, so there was that.

[3] Azazel had a _blankie_? He had to tell Dean. There had to be some way to tell Dean. Dean would laugh and laugh and laugh and maybe, just maybe, he would forgive Castiel.

[4] Lucifer had not yet figured out that Castiel was wearing a dead human. Crowley knew better than to tell him.

[5] Azazel had been his best general from time immemorial. Before they’d even had years. Azazel had belonged to him as a fluffy, awkward eyas. He was a prat, and he was kind of broken, but he was Lucifer’s.

[6] Castiel had never read Alice and Wonderland, and therefore had no words to express what he was feeling. If he had, though, he would have said, “Curiouser and curiouser.”

[7] He’d been ready to rage at the mention of Dad, but this—this was so much juicier. Screw dear old Dad, anyway. Across town, Linda Martin felt a flash of triumph and wasn’t sure why.

[8] Castiel agreed with most of it, actually. It was just—Lucifer wasn’t allowed to say bad things about angels; he was Lucifer.

[9] There was Asmodeus. But Asmodeus was imprisoned because it had tried to release the Shedim that time and just—no. Let’s not even go there.

[10] Such care for the sanity of a single human – the Lucifer of his world would never have even considered it, without an ulterior motive. That Crowley spoke for this one so passionately meant a great deal, even if he was a demon. Castiel thought, and he thought, and he thought.

[11] That was high praise indeed. Lucifer felt himself puff up with pride. Crowley really was his favorite advisor; he played with Beatrice and he went to lunch with Chloe and they all clearly got along quite nicely. The gentlest of all Hell’s demons, Crowley could sit as a snake around Chloe’s neck, and Lucifer never worried about him choking her or biting her or any of it. He was a good friend.

[12] Castiel was well used to spells, especially in his life as an honorary Winchester. For this one, it was not so much the power that was the problem; it was the duration. Angels were mainly creatures of Will; only a high ranking one would be able to maintain the sort of focus for the length of time required. It helped that there was an incantation he could repeat to maintain focus, which was what made him say yes. He would have hesitated if it had been silent.

[13] Trust was few and far between in Hell, really, so it was just a regular Tuesday for him.


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale was sitting beside a lump on the floor. The lump was huddled under a sad-looking, half-burnt, bright red blanket that frayed at all of its edges. It was more fray than it was blanket. Four brass-colored wings peaked out of it, and most of a human-shaped body. Azazel had his head and part of his shoulders underneath. Aziraphale had clearly pulled him out of Lucifer’s bedroom, for some unfathomable reason. Crowley gaped at him. 

“What,” blurted Castiel, expressing Crowley's thoughts exactly.

“Shush,” said Aziraphale, kneeling, Watchdog sprawled at his side. “He’s doing much better, aren’t you, er, Azazel?”

“The world has ended,” moaned Azazel to the floor.

Beside Crowley, Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Dad’s sake,” he muttered. “Azazel, don’t be absurd. The world has not ended. You are fine.”

“The fiery pits have consumed me,” whimpered Azazel. “I have been cast out!”

“We’ve been through this!” Lucifer said, exasperated. “I never cast you out!”

“I am damned for _eternity_ ,” wailed Azazel, hiding under his blanket.

Crowley blinked at him behind his sunglasses, feeling just as bewildered as Castiel. He Whose Wings Shined[1], Artist of War, Azazel the Splendid and Lucifer’s Highest General was hiding under a worn, well-loved blankie. Being Left Hand was mostly okay, but it had its weird days.

“I mean,” Crowley said, faint, “It’s not so bad, being damned. When you get used to it.”

Azazel wailed. Aziraphale glared at Crowley. Even Watchie spared him an accusing look.

“What,” said Castiel again. Crowley kind of agreed. 

“I mean, you knew he was freaking out,” Crowley muttered to him, but he was definitely on the same page as Castiel. What in Manchester was even happening. 

“All of you hush! Crowley, come here.” Aziraphale beckoned him.

Puzzled, Crowley picked his way over. He bent to pat Watchie on the way.

“Listen,” Aziraphale told Azazel. Azazel’s eyes, a yellow more toxic than Crowley’s, with a pupil so near in shade to the iris that it was nearly invisible, flicked to Aziraphale, peeking from under the blanket.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand.

“How long would it take me,” he sang in his pretty baritone, “to be near if you beckon?”

“Are you serious?” Crowley blurted. Aziraphale glared.

Right. Fine. Singing a very sappy love song from the forties to the Dread General Azazel. Why not. His life was already extremely bizarre.

“Offhand I would figure,” Crowley sang, giving up entirely, “less than a second.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes, but Crowley watched him go over to the piano in the room. He sat down, and caressed the keys, and accompanied them. Castiel looked completely gobsmacked at this whole affair. Crowley was right there with him. 

It was a long bloody song, too.

Aziraphale didn’t cast a blessing, so Crowley didn’t do a blight, either. A paradox would only freak out—well—everyone else in the room. They sang together, back and forth, and the thing about singing with Aziraphale was that Aziraphale usually meant what he sang, when it was a duet. Not always, but usually, and he definitely did this time. Crowley felt himself flushing, a little, because the song was sappy as anything. Thing was, he thought, feeling his eyes go heavy, he meant it, too. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale squeezed back.

They reached the end of the song and Aziraphale broke eye contact[2]. Crowley looked down to Azazel.

Azazel was sitting up, legs crossed like a child. His four great brass wings were half-spread to accommodate this. His frayed blanket was around his shoulders like an overlarge, torn up scarf. He was looking at Lucifer.

“My Lord?” he asked softly.

“Back in the land of the living, are we, Azazel?” Lucifer said from where he sat at the piano.

“Nearly,” Azazel whispered. He looked down at his folded legs.

Lucifer sighed. He got up from his piano bench and strolled over. He sat next to Azazel on the floor. Watchdog shuffled over to make room.

“Alright,” he said. “You know the drill. Go on.”

Azazel nodded. He leaned over and put his cheek against Lucifer’s shoulder. He folded his hindwings and curled one of his forewings around Lucifer. The wing was big enough that Lucifer could reach the sharpened primaries; he ran his fingers through them carefully.

 _“Cast out you may be,”_ Lucifer crooned, low, soft Enochian, _“But alone you are not. You belong to me, and you are my soldier, and my general. Your wings are strong, and you can forge weapons from air alone. You are mighty, magnificent Azazel, and you command legions. You have always been mine, from the Beginning. I trained you as an eyas; your nest was mine, and so are you. You are with me, old friend, and you are home.”_

Azazel let out a great, long sigh. He pressed close to Lucifer.

 _“Say it again,”_ he whispered.

Lucifer said it again, verbatim, as he clearly had many times. He preened Azazel’s feathers, which were sleek and well-groomed already—likely he used brushes, and a hooked dowel to do it himself, Crowley thought. Or maybe Lucifer did it for him. Who knew.

He tugged on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looked at him and nodded as though Crowley had spoken. Together, they wandered over, collected Watchie and a bewildered Castiel, and went back to the library.

“This is very strange,” Castiel said pitifully.

“You know? I agree with you,” Crowley said dryly. He watched Watchdog sniff at the library’s corners. “Azazel is usually terrifying. I had no idea that he fell apart like this. I mean, Lucifer mentioned it a time or two, but that’s not the same.”

“They all do, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “Everyone in Hell. They all have—something. Something wrong.”

Crowley frowned at him, and then he thought about it. Hastur and Ligur were deranged, it was true, but in the quiet, evil way of Dukes and bureaucrats. Hastur had gone funny when Crowley had killed Ligur, but that was perfectly understandable; they were nestmates, as Lucifer and Amenadiel were nestmates. Belial, while stupid, was mostly sane, too. “Not everyone,” Crowley said at last. “Just—most of them.”

“What do we do now?” Castiel asked.

“We wait for them to be done. Looks like the boss has some kind of ritual he does. Not—the magic kind,” Crowley added when Castiel frowned. “The regular kind. They’ll come get us. Hey, is he the same Azazel as the one from your world? I mean, an alternate version? Can you tell?”

“I never saw our Azazel,” Castiel said. “But Lucifer is the same. The same individual, that is. He is—very different in personality.” That was a relief, Crowley thought. He knew Nightmare Lucifer was different, but it was good to hear Castiel say it. 

“Different life experience,” Aziraphale murmured. “He got out of the cage.”

“Found humans,” Crowley added. “Had his sanity intact, so he could _like_ humans.”

“It will take me some time,” Castiel said, “to trust him as you do.” He looked from Crowley to Aziraphale, still a little uncertain. That wasn't exactly new, though. Crowley even knew what that felt like. 

“Took me a bit to trust him too,” Crowley shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, Pigeon. Trust me, trust Aziraphale. Everyone else can come later.”

Castiel quirked a strange, sideways smile. “Your world is very different. It lacks—urgency. It is… relaxing.”

“Oh, there’s urgency,” Aziraphale said wryly. “But it only happens because we are incompetent and must fix our mistakes. Such as not closing these holes earlier.”

Castiel chuckled. “If you can keep me from making a catastrophic error, then I can be competent enough for the three of us.”

“I’ll take that deal,” Crowley told him with a smile. Castiel smiled back, tentatively.

They loitered in Lucifer’s library for a while. Watchie found things to sniff, and Aziraphale wandered off to look at the books, and Crowley did too, because he might as well. Castiel stuck close to Aziraphale’s side, still uncertain. Crowley couldn't really blame him. It wasn't every day that an angel like Castiel found himself in Lucifer Morningstar's personal library, even if this Lucifer wasn't as bad as Nightmare Lucifer. 

A book caught his eye. “Hey angel, look, this one’s bound in dragon skin, too,” Crowley said at last. He reached up and took it down, carefully. It was sitting next to a book that looked, disturbingly, like it was bound in human skin. Lucifer had written BOOK OF THE DAMNED on the thing's spine, in sharpie. Definitely leaving that alone. The dragon hide one looked more interesting, anyway. 

“Don’t open that one,” Lucifer said abruptly. Crowley startled a little, and so did Castiel. Lucifer was leaning in the doorway, casual as anything, watching them. He seemed amused. How long had he been there? Watchdog bounded over to say hello to him.

“Oh?” Crowley asked, now curious. He looked him up and down.

Lucifer was composed once more, a funny half-smile on his face. His hair was a little ruffled, and his suit was wrinkled on one shoulder, likely from Azazel. He had another brass-colored feather stuck on his collar. He patted Watchdog’s head.

“Asteroth stole that one from Lilith,” Lucifer said, nodding at the book. “Nasty thing. It’s binding spells. The whole thing is cursed.” 

“Why is it on Earth?” Aziraphale asked. “If it’s that dangerous.”

“Won’t hurt humans or imps.” Lucifer shrugged. “Made for Celestials and demons. Really, Crowley, put that one back.”

“Why have you not destroyed it?” Castiel asked.

“Well. It’s dragon hide, for one, so that’s harder than it looks and two—Could come in handy, for when the demons get restless. There’s always a rebellion or two in Hell.” He shrugged. “You need a special key to open it safely; I’ve got it tucked away. If you’re really curious we can fetch it after this is over.” 

Crowley put the book back nervously. Good thing he hadn’t opened it. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Might do you some good,” Lucifer shrugged. “Good way to deal with the Hastur problem.”

“You dealt with the Hastur problem,” said Crowley. “He’s cleaning worm dung in the Eighth Circle. King’s Direct Orders.”

“I did, but he’s still angry, Crowley. I can’t fix that,” said Lucifer, though he said it gently.

Crowley felt a careful tap on his side. Surprised, he turned to see that Castiel had slipped away from Aziraphale and come up alongside him, almost silently, eyes flashing with protective anger and loyalty.

“Call me,” he said, low and dangerous, “If he comes for you.”

Crowley shivered a little. Nightmare World, and a nightmare experience, shone in Castiel’s eyes, buttressed his battle-ready posture, more serious than Michael ever was. He gulped. “Listen," he said, "that’s sweet of you, it really is, but we sort of—try not—to kill people here? That’s what got me in hot water with Hastur in the first place.”

Lucifer chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Crowley,” he said, lightly, not alarmed in the slightest by Castiel's poised, battle ready posture, “Nightmare World angel offers you a classic Lilim pact of loyalty and you go all uncomfortable. Anyway—Azazel is back to normal, so we should get planning. We’ll need him, if we’re to go to Hell. Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel mouth the word _Lilim,_ clearly not understanding. He'd explain later. Speaking of-- “And I think Maze should come too. We should make a—a big show of it, you know. Royal procession and everything. Should dress you up all exotic,” he added to Castiel. “So it looks like the king went to great lengths to find you. Though you’ll never confirm or deny, of course.” He smiled at Lucifer.

“Why?” asked Castiel.

“Politics,” said Crowley. “Boss likes Earth. Hell’s been feeling neglected lately. If it looks like you went on some sort of, of grand journey, put in great pains to fix the holes in Asteroth’s absence—which is why it took so long—”

“They’ll like that,” Lucifer said slowly. Watchdog was sitting next to him and leaning all up along his side, getting dog hair on his nice suit. He did not look pleased about this, and kept inching away. She shuffled over and followed him like it was a game. “But I won’t lie to them, Crowley, you know that.”

“Never told you to lie,” said Crowley. “Don’t confirm or deny. His name is Castiel. He’s from an alternate universe, so he isn’t one of our angels. No reason to hate him. He’s high ranking. He’s fought monsters. He’s convinced the Empty to spit him back out. None of those things are lies. Where did you get him? Me.” Crowley smiled, smug.

“Clever,” Lucifer said. “They’ll love that.”

At Crowley’s other side, Aziraphale slipped over, took his hand. “And it wins you favor, dear. Very clever.”

“I thought so,” Crowley told him, cheerful. “We will need Mazikeen, though. Which means I have to tell you some stuff about Hell,” he added, looking at Castiel. “We have different demons than you do.”

“Really?” asked Lucifer.

“They don’t have Lilim or Lesser Demons,” Crowley told him. “They barely have Greater Demons. Just imps.”

“Bloody cage,” Lucifer muttered. “Messed up Hell, too. It was probably some—some sick _experiment_ ,” he growled. “The more I learn about Nightmare World, the more I start to think Dear Old _Dad_ might actually be a bloody _psychopath_ , instead of just a wretched person.”

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale scolded.

“No, I don’t want to hear about _Ineffability_ , Aziraphale,” Lucifer snapped, “it isn’t—”

“He isn’t a psychopath,” Castiel interrupted flatly. “He’s a writer. He likes stories. He told me so himself.”

Crowley gaped at him. The room fell quiet.

“So, just a bastard, then,” Lucifer said, at last.

“That’s strangely comforting,” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale was silent.

Crowley glanced over to him. He was looking at his shoes, uncomfortable. Crowley twined their fingers and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back and radiated misery.

“I am sorry, Aziraphale,” Castiel blurted, correctly reading the silence. He’d gotten better at that. “Maybe it’s different here[3].”

Crowley leaned over to his angel and murmured, “Story’s kind of like a plan, though, right? Come on, angel, it’s just Nightmare World stuff. It’s called that for a reason, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded at his shoes. “Yes,” he said, still clearly uncomfortable. “Yes of course. Shall we proceed to the sitting room? I’m sure Azazel is getting impatient.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale but acquiesced wordlessly, pushing away from the wall and striding away. Watchie scrambled to keep up. Castiel at his side, Crowley pulled Aziraphale gently from the room.

____________

[1] The One With The Shining Wings, really, but it was hard to translate from Lilim in a way that sounded sufficiently badass.

[2] He had long experience looking through those sunglasses

[3] It definitely wasn’t. Even Castiel didn’t believe that.


	8. Chapter 8

In the sitting room, Azazel was nursing a glass of Scotch, sitting on the sofa and looking dejected. As they walked in, he jumped to his feet. Watchdog bolted to Crowley’s side. He scratched her ear. 

“Highness,” he told Lucifer, “My Lord,” he added to Crowley.

It was still really weird being addressed that way. Also, really weird that Azazel now looked totally composed and fine now. They were just—pretending that never happened? That was messed up. Linda would have a field day with this guy, Crowley thought.

“Azazel,” said Lucifer. “I believe that Crowley and I have come up with a plan to secure the holes.”

“Excellent, Highness,” Azazel said. “What do you need from me?”

“From you I will need your legion, in their parade armor. There will be a procession as we travel from hole to hole and close them. I will have Castiel with me. Castiel?” He beckoned.

Castiel stepped forward, frowning.

“He is an angel from the alternate universe, who has agreed to help. I am relying on him—and that the demons of our world will not recognize him. He will need protection.”

Azazel looked Castiel up and down, assessing. It was frank and matter of fact, a general searching for weaknesses, making a plan. “Yes, sir,” he said finally, as though reaching a decision. “I will have a guard for him.”

“Good. Most importantly: we will have a living human with us as well. The demons are not to attack her. She is key.”

Azazel stood up even straighter, if that was possible, brassy feathers flexing to catch the light proudly. “Then I will guard her myself, alongside Loray[1], and five of my best Lesser Demons.”

“Excellent.” Lucifer raised an eyebrow to Crowley. “We need to know the way, though. You had Belial do an inventory?”

“Yep,” said Crowley. “Also.” He pointed to Azazel, fearless in his new rank and with Lucifer at his side to enforce it. “Quit beating him up! I need him in one piece.”

Azazel scowled. “My Lord. He is an idiot.”

It wasn't like he was wrong, but still. 

“He belongs to Crowley,” Lucifer drawled, though he sounded amused. “Idiot he may be, but he is Crowley’s idiot. Stop torturing him.”

“Very well,” said Azazel, a little sullenly.

“Great," said Crowley, and then at Lucifer's nod he added, "Belial, Belial, Archdemon Belial, I Summon you to Audience with Lucifer.”

This time, the floor didn’t bubble. Good choice: Lucifer hated Hellish theatrics, unless he was the one doing them. Belial simply appeared, kneeling, eyes downcast, his burnt-orange wings spread in supplication. “My Lords,” he said.

“Hi,” said Crowley. Watchie leaned all up along his side, a comforting weight. Aziraphale and Castiel had faded somewhere to the background, the angels uncomfortable with this many demons. They seemed otherwise alright though, at a glance. “Did you do the inventory of the holes yet, Belial?”

“Yes, milord,” Belial said, brightening as he looked up and met Crowley’s eyes, clearly expecting a treat. They'd get there.

“Great! Here’s your next task. I need a route that will visit all of them in the least amount of time. Please, do us all a favor, and delegate the actual plotting of the route to someone. Literally anyone who is not you[2]. We’re going to have a big grand procession, demons and hounds and hunter-horses, the works. And we’re going to close the holes. So, you need to find the best route for us to take, and then Azazel is going to go over it with his legion, on horseback, and make adjustments. Got it?”

Belial’s eyes gleamed, distracted from the lack-of-sweets. “You’re going to close them?”

“Yes,” said Crowley. He turned to Lucifer. “Good plan?”

“Good plan,” said Lucifer. That was the Satan Seal of Approval. Awesome. “Belial, when you and Azazel have finished, take your inventory and the route to the Dark Council for review, and quickly. They must be informed of the plan and the event. If they wish to participate, they may. I want this done in one Earth day, understood?”

“Yes, milord,” Belial murmured.

“Good. You’re both dismissed,” said Lucifer.

Azazel disappeared right away, but Belial remained. He gave Crowley a big-eyed, sad look. Crowley hadn't given him a sweet, after all.

He laughed. He tossed Belial a Mars Bar. “Go on. Go fix Hell, Belial.”

Belial caught the chocolate, grinned, and disappeared.

“Are you serious?” Lucifer blurted. “You’re giving him chocolate?”

“As it turns out, the easiest way to buy a demon’s loyalty is to give him treats when he’s good,” Crowley drawled.

Lucifer laughed. “I’ll have to try that.”

“Crowley,” said Castiel, from where he was sitting by the bar with Aziraphale. “What did I just agree to?”

“Something entirely ridiculous,” drawled Aziraphale, beside him. “If you’re going through the London Below entrance to Hell, I will guard the door, my dear.”

Crowley didn’t really like that thought. The London below entrance was inside Islington’s Cage, and he didn’t want Aziraphale to step foot in that creepy place. “Maybe the outside?” he said, “By the swamp? I’d rather you not sit physically in the cage if you don't have to, angel.”

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale said, slipping to his feet and drifting back over. “I know how to get out.” His eyes twinkled deviously. “I never closed the Angelus, you know.” He patted Watchdog’s head.

Crowley exhaled sharply. The surge of absolute love he felt was breathtaking. “You bastard,” he whispered, delighted.

“There’s a way out?” asked Lucifer, ever the escape artist. “Of Islington’s Cage? I didn’t see one.”

Aziraphale smiled secretively. “Oh, yes. There’s always a way out, Lucifer. Surely you know that.”

Lucifer smiled back, slowly. “I do indeed.”

“I’ll guard the door,” Aziraphale added. “Give Amenadiel the swamp. Let Raguel sit with the Black Friars and drink their tea. He will keep them from snooping overmuch.”

Crowley nodded slowly. “As long as you think you can get out of that place, if you have to, angel.” That cage gave him the willies. He didn’t like the idea of Aziraphale standing around in there, even knowing the way out.

“Crowley, I have been in and out of that cage for centuries. It’s fine.” He smiled serenely. “And anyway, if Amenadiel is in the swamp, he can simply let me out, should the worst happen.”

Lucifer nodded. “Not a bad idea. Alright then. I gave Belial and Azazel a day. Do you three want to stay in LA, or go back to London?”

Crowley turned to Castiel, silent and bewildered for most of the conversation. “Might as well stay and introduce you to Angel Network,” he said. “Especially to Linda, because we are so sending you to therapy.”

“No smiting Linda,” Lucifer growled at Castiel.

Castiel blinked at him. “Who is Linda?” he asked Crowley pitifully.

“Human,” Crowley told him. “100% human. We’re all pretty attached to her. I did her back garden.” This he said with some pride. He’d flown back over after the Asteroth business and helped Linda and Mazikeen fix up the back garden. Sometimes he went back to make sure the plants were properly intimidated, though Maze did a good job of that too.

“Humans are part of Angel Network?” Castiel asked, brightening considerably.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said. “They are humans we are—attached to. Many of them belonged to Lucifer at the start, truth be told, but now we have all rather—adopted them.”

“Also, Raguel has like six million dogs these days, and they’re kind of part of the Network, too,” Crowley added wryly.

“My dear, he has eight dogs[3].”

“That is seven too many, right Watchie?”

Watchie made a garbled sound around her llama. Crowley took that as agreement.

“And on that note,” Lucifer said, rolling his eyes, “I am late for work.” He scooped up a jacket where it was drooped over the arm of a sofa, presumably where he'd left it after Azazel had turned up. 

Castiel gaped at him.

“Doesn’t do to keep the Detective waiting,” said Aziraphale lightly.

“Not at all. So. If you’ll all excuse me, I have places to be and felons to convict.” He shrugged on the jacket. 

“And Detectives to irritate,” Crowley added on a drawl.

“I’ll have you know that she finds me incredibly charming and sexy,” Lucifer said haughtily, as he headed for the elevator.

“Lucifer!” Crowley called.

He paused, turned, and raised an eyebrow.

“Tell Chloe about this plan and closing the holes. If she wants to be involved, let her. I am saying this to save you heartache later; trust me!” Crowley had totally been there. It helped if your humans knew things. Particularly a human like Chloe, who was proactive and who wouldn't take kindly to her devil-boyfriend disappearing off to the London Below Hell-door and then Hell itself without warning. 

The lift dinged open, and Lucifer stepped inside. He shrugged at Crowley, and the doors closed.

“Oh, she’s going to kill him if he doesn’t tell her,” Crowley sighed. “Maybe we should go get Linda and warn her.”

“Who is Chloe?” Castiel asked.

“His most favoritest human,” Crowley said dryly. “Detective Chloe Decker. You know how there’s that _one_ who’s special?”

Castiel looked away. He nodded.

“Oh, Castiel,” murmured Aziraphale, gripping Castiel’s arm.

“Bastard Dean,” Crowley muttered. He was going to smack that boy, he really was. Possibly run him over with the Bentley? Show him a _real_ car. “Right. Well. Chloe’s that for Lucifer.”

“And he hasn’t—he hasn’t—” Castiel started, apparently unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Nope. Here’s a cool thing about Chloe; she’s actually immune. Seriously. She’s immune to everyone. Except Amenadiel, I think, since he's the one who blessed her, though we haven’t tested that. But really; you know that thing where you will someone up against a wall? Ask her if you can try it. She let me try, a few months ago, because I was curious. Didn’t work. It’s wild.”

“She is—immune. To Celestials.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said. “And Lucifer loves her. Really and truly; you can sense it a great distance away. She returns his affections, as well. They are quite lovely, in truth.”

“And before you ask, she is one hundred percent normal human, minus that immunity thing. She’s not strange or violent or any of that. She’s a single mother who works for LAPD, and that’s it.”

“That’s—impossible.”

“Impossible for your world, maybe,” Crowley said. “Not for this one.” He shrugged.

“However,” Aziraphale said, “I believe it would be best for us to establish a, a home-place, as it were.”

“Home base,” Crowley muttered, rolling his eyes behind his glasses.

Castiel smiled fondly at Aziraphale, clearly knowing the phrase, too. “That sounds like a good idea,” he agreed. 

“Crowley, do you know any of Lucifer’s homes?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, yeah, sure – there’s one with a really nice view of sunrise. He almost killed a guy there and keeps threatening to sell it; I was thinking of buying it off him. But we’re not going to be here for long, really.” Crowley chewed his lip. “Maybe—Linda’s instead?”

He slid his eyes to Castiel, and then to Aziraphale. Introducing poor Castiel to a therapist would do him some good, he thought, trying to convey this to Aziraphale with his eyes. Also, it didn’t hurt to try to start introducing him to bits of Angel Network, too.

Aziraphale looked confused[4]. 

“Linda,” Crowley said slowly, because Aziraphale was an idiot. “Who helped you. Who can help _other people_.”

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, and looked, obviously, at Castiel. Now he got it, finally.

“What?” Castiel asked irritably.

“Why don’t you call her, and we can head over,” Crowley told Aziraphale. “On your phone. Angel.”

“Right, of course,” Aziraphale said, blustering. “It’s Tuesday—she should be home.” He dug out his sort of sad flip phone and wandered off to call her. Crowley tried not to roll his eyes again and failed.

____________

[1] Ugh. Loray. Crowley shuddered. Loray was a pain in the arse – Loray started battles, and had these creepy arrows that could make wounds go gangrenous. Of course, he wouldn’t start anything with Azazel around, but still. Nasty sort of demon. Still—good protection, Crowley supposed. Nobody messed around with Loray.

[2] Because if Belial tried to do it himself, they’d be down there for the next hundred years. The concept that 'the shortest distance between two points was a line' boggled Belial’s mind, and there was no way he could figure out how to apply that fact on such short notice.

[3] Truth be told, they were fosters. Raguel liked a full house, but he was not good at committing.

[4] Downtime would be good for everyone, he thought, confused, even for Crowley. After the nonsense, normally Crowley would be itching for some quiet, but—why was Crowley looking at him like that? He was pretty sure Crowley was looking at him, though it was hard to tell sometimes with those sunglasses. Aziraphale squinted. What was he doing with his eyes? 


	9. Chapter 9

Raguel required some explanation, and he had the car, so they flew to Linda’s place. They left Watchie back at Lucifer’s; she’d be alright for the day[1]. Crowley knew Linda would be home. It was a Tuesday, and that was when she did her back garden[2].

Still, he landed them a little ways away and insisted that they walk. There were things to discuss.

“Here’s the thing,” he told Castiel as they strolled past the nearby houses, making their way to Linda's. “We’ve got different demons than you do. Lucifer outlawed the intentional creation of imps like, centuries ago, so we don’t have very many. Sometimes it happens if the soul is really nasty, but it’s rare. Demons as you know them look different in our Hell.”

Castiel frowned. He'd tucked his wings away, but it was clear he'd be ruffling and unruffling them if he could. Crowley knew that he didn't like demons, and with good reason. “What do they look like, then?”

“Well, you got your Greater Demons – that’s me – and your Lesser Demons. Lilith and a bunch of others made demons out of the firmament of Hell. Those are Lesser Demons. So politically speaking, you have the Lilim, Lilith’s children, and the other Lesser Demons, made by someone who wasn’t Lilith, but, you know, same deal: firmament of Hell.”

“And Lilith is—an imp. Like in my world,” Castiel said slowly.

“Yes. The hierarchy goes Lucifer, Greater Demons, Lesser Demons and then imps, generally speaking. There’s variation, of course, but that’s the general rule. Lilith is a weird exception because she’s the first imp, so she gets special—I don’t know, stuff. We steer clear; she’s nasty.”

Castiel nodded. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because Mazikeen, Lucifer’s Right Hand, is Linda’s best friend, and she might be there,” Crowley told him. Aziraphale gave a little nod at Crowley over Castiel’s shoulder – she was there. “She’s one of the Lilim, but she’s loyal to Lucifer, and she likes humans, mostly. She works as a bounty hunter for the LAPD, and she adores Linda. Don’t fight with her; she’s an honorary member of Angel Network.”

Castiel frowned. “I thought we were meeting Amenadiel?”

“Sometimes Amenadiel helps Linda with her garden,” Aziraphale said lightly. “She said he was there when I called. Linda is well beloved by Angel Network. Though he and Mazikeen generally don’t get along very well.”

“I see,” murmured Castiel. “I won’t fight with Mazikeen.”

“Good lad,” said Aziraphale.

“I am the same age as you,” Castiel drawled.

“Nah,” Crowley teased, “You’re our Pigeon. Come on! It’s this one.” He hustled up to Linda’s front door and knocked.

Sure enough, the door jerked open and a very suspicious Maze peered out. “Heard you brought a new angel,” she growled.

“Yeah, he’s a friend. Promise.” Crowley held out a hand as if to shake.

The handshake thing had actually been Trixie’s idea. Crowley was still a little wary of Maze, but they were Left and Right Hands now, and he did kind of want some solidarity. Apparently, she and Asteroth had cordially detested each other. She seemed to find Crowley boring, but the handshake was Trixie, and she adored Trixie.

Anyway. Better boring than threatening.

She smacked the back of her hand against his, they clapped palms together and intertwined their fingers. Crowley dug his nails into her knuckles, and she did the same, drawing just a hint of blood as they pulled apart, and clapped the backs of their hands, then palms again. Crowley shook out his hand, healing it.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she answered, looking directly into his eyes through the sunglasses. That was creepy, but at least she spoke his bloody language[3].

“Maze, this is Castiel,” Crowley said, stepping aside so they could see each other. “Castiel, this is Maze – Mazikeen of the Lilim – Lucifer’s Right Hand. Honorary Angel Network, so be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Castiel protested.

“Liar,” said Crowley.

Maze looked him up and down. “Now _that’s_ interesting,” she drawled. “This one’s tasted blood.” She licked her lips, eyes fixed on Castiel and gleaming. “Fun.”

“Don’t needle him,” Crowley told her, sighing. This was going to go terribly. 

“Boring,” she sighed.

“Maze!” called Amenadiel. “Who’s at the door?”

“Crowley and friends!” Maze called back, exasperation in her voice.

“Hello, Amenadiel!” Aziraphale called, at Crowley’s shoulder.

“Aziraphale!” said Amenadiel warmly, “Come in, come in!”

Crowley shared an eyeroll with Maze. Angels.

She stood aside and let them through. Castiel shivered hard when he stepped over the threshold.

“What--?” he asked.

“It’s the paradox,” Maze said dryly. “It won’t hurt you unless you have ill intent. You don’t have ill intent, do you?” She eyed Castiel suspiciously.

“No,” Castiel said, hesitant.

“Then it makes you feel like you’re covered in eggs.”

“Yes, _that’s_ the feeling,” Castiel said, bewildered. "It was at the bookshop, too," he told Crowley plaintively. Crowley shrugged at him, because they had definitely paradoxed the bookshop and it had been _memorable._ Castiel still seemed confused but he followed Crowley into Linda’s house.

Amenadiel was waiting at the bottom of the stairs at the front entrance. He beamed at Aziraphale. “Good to see you!” he said. “Who’s this?” He nodded to Castiel.

“Castiel, this is Amenadiel, the Eldest,” Aziraphale murmured. “Amenadiel, this is Castiel, Thursday’s Angel, and the only member of Angel Network in Nightmare World.”

“I love meeting new members of Angel Network,” Amenadiel said, still warm. “Welcome to Daydream World, Castiel. Linda!” he called. “You can come out now!”

Linda crawled out from under the sofa, looking bedraggled and annoyed. She combed fingers in her hair, brushing out dust irritably. “Was that really necessary?”

“Well, we had to _vet_ them!” Maze growled. “They had someone new with them!”

“I know you called ahead, but I was a little concerned,” Amenadiel told Aziraphale and Crowley sheepishly. “It’s not often that I meet new angels, and with the holes in Heaven and Hell, I didn't know who Aziraphale might be bringing... But if you’re Angel Network, that’s just fine.” He smiled at Castiel. 

Of course Aziraphale had not given them enough information, Crowley thought with an internal sigh. Of course. He was just as incompetent as Crowley was, after all. 

“There are holes in Heaven, too?” Castiel was asking, aggrieved.

“Just three,” said Amenadiel. “Carved by Naomi[4].”

Castiel grimaced. “I am—so sorry. That she did that. Your world did not deserve to be collateral damage for her plans.”

“It’s not your fault, I’m sure,” Amenadiel said. Crowley caught Maze rolling her eyes. Angels being nice to each other. Not as common as one might think, though he didn't know how to tell her this. 

Castiel knew this, though. He seemed surprised at Amenadiel's kindness. “You are the Eldest,” he murmured, intrigued. “Forgive me—in my world you died in the rebellion, and left Michael the rank of Eldest. It is—fascinating to meet you.”

“He—died?” Linda came up to stand next to Amenadiel. She raked more dust balls out of her hair, and missed a spot. 

“Linda,” Castiel said. He was clearly pleased to finally meet a human. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He held out a hand.

She shook it. “I’ve heard some about you, too, Castiel. Welcome to Daydream World.”

“How did he die?” Maze asked from beside the door, looking kind of hungry.

“Azazel,” said Castiel darkly. “He was killed by Azazel. The first casualty of the War.”

Crowley frowned. It wasn’t the best time of his life, but he remembered the War. “Lucifer’s orders were not to kill[5].”

Castiel shrugged. “Maybe not in my world. I don’t know. I was stationed with the foot soldiers.”

“That’s—oddly fascinating,” Linda said. “So it’s—two universes that split from each other?”

“As near as we can tell, yes,” said Aziraphale.

“Have you found the split?” Linda asked.

“Seraquael,” said Castiel. “Crowley and I discussed it, long ago. The split is Seraquael. In my world Carasel was killed for _hatred._ Here he was killed for _love._ Everything else cascaded from there.”

“Something so small,” murmured Linda. “A butterfly flaps its wings, that kind of thing?”

“What?” said Castiel.

“As you like to say, Aziraphale,” Amenadiel said, amused, “It’s ineffable.”

“Ugh,” Maze said. “Angels. I’m going back to the garden. I have plants to threaten. Coming, Crowley?”

Working on Linda’s back garden was an absolute delight. Crowley looked at Castiel, and then at Aziraphale, wanting badly to follow her.

“Go on,” Aziraphale said, teasing, “we’ll be fine here.”

Castiel looked confused, but Castiel always looked confused, so Crowley let it lie. He dashed toward Linda's glass door after Mazikeen, and followed her into the bright LA sunshine.

Maze picked up a trowel. She glared at Crowley. “He won’t hurt Linda?” she asked darkly.

“Nah,” said Crowley, eyeing that trowel nervously. “Castiel loves humans. He fought in an angel rebellion, which is why you smell blood. It’s angel blood. He fought to save humanity from the angels who wanted an apocalypse. Promise. He really won’t hurt Linda.”

Maze nodded slowly. She put down the trowel. “Fine. One hair out of place, though, and I’m going for his throat.” 

“Seems fair,” Crowley said, and he didn’t tell her that Castiel wasn’t like Crowley, or even like Aziraphale. Aziraphale could be terrifying, and he was definitely a soldier, but he was ultimately very tame. Castiel was like a fighting dog. He begged for table scraps and kindness, and he loved deeply, but he had teeth. Maze would see that as a challenge.

Crowley just saw that that fight would get ugly.

“There’s some ivy over there that’s growing crooked,” Maze told him. “Could use some fear.”

Crowley grinned. Now that he could do. He stalked up to the ivy, indeed very crooked, and got to work.

Tormenting plants was fun, and it was nice to have Maze backing him up, or sometimes he let her lead, though she preferred actual torture and not fear. But by the end of the afternoon, they’d ripped out thirteen weeds, and Crowley and Maze had clipped and scared a lilac into submission. The daisies were now upright, and they’d put out like eight more flowers after Crowley glowered at them. Maze had scared off a few garden pests, too. Crowley generally only did indoor plants; he was impressed with her intimidation, there.

Feeling filthy but triumphant, he went back inside, Maze picking dirt out of her fingernails at his side. 

In the house, Aziraphale, Amenadiel, Castiel, and Linda were all sitting around Linda’s dining room table, playing cards. Predictably, Aziraphale was winning.

“You’re the worst,” Crowley told Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled sweetly at him. Crowley strolled up to him, careful not to get dirt on Linda's clean carpet.

“Chloe called,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Apparently, Lucifer told her about half of the story, and she was quite alarmed. I calmed her down, poor dear. She wants to wait for us to return from Below in the bookshop[6]. I didn’t see the harm in it.”

Crowley shrugged. “If anything happens to her, Lucifer will actually murder us.”

“Not— _murder_ —” Amenadiel said, strained.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at him, unconvinced. He grimaced. “I’ll stop him before it comes to that.”

“Regardless, the bookshop is protected,” Aziraphale sniffed. “It’s perfectly safe, and we’ll take Shepherd and Watchdog to guard her. Besides, London is quite safe from Celestials, too.”

Crowley groaned. “You’ve just jinxed it, you know that, right?”

Maze snorted and drifted over to Linda. She settled in beside her, peering at her cards. Crowley likewise settled next to Aziraphale and watched the game contentedly. His angel was brilliant at cards, of course, and he won, round after round, because he was a bastard. He was definitely cheating somehow. Crowley tried to catch him at it, and couldn't. 

“How did you--?” Castiel spluttered, as Aziraphale won again.

“He’s very good,” chuckled Amenadiel.

Crowley huffed. Aziraphale was a brat, was what he was. 

The afternoon passed in lovely contentment. Castiel asked Amenadiel quiet, curious questions about Heaven, and Amenadiel answered gamely. Even Crowley was horrified to learn of the status of Castiel’s Heaven: roughly nine angels were left, and the place was crumbling.

“But I found Jack—” started Castiel, and then he cut off, looking away.

“Jack?” asked Amenadiel.

“Nephilim,” Aziraphale said gently. “Half angel, half human,” he explained to Linda. He glanced at Castiel. “Castiel was raising him, but he, er, died.”

“I’m so sorry, Castiel,” said Linda, and she really seemed to mean that. She reached over and rested a hand on Castiel’s arm. 

Castiel sucked in a breath, as if startled by the compassion and the touch. “Me too,” he murmured, swaying a little toward her. He’d clearly needed to hear that from a human. Bastard Dean, Crowley thought, again. “He—he made a few more angels out of humans, anyway. Nephilim are incredibly powerful,” he added to Linda. “Heaven is in better shape now, so I hear.”

“Is that a thing?” Linda asked, startled. “Humans into angels?”

“Not really,” Amenadiel said. “Only our Father could do that. Or a Nephilim, I suppose. Your world sounds – frankly terrifying, Castiel.” She patted his arm.

“Called it Nightmare World for a reason,” Crowley drawled from where he was perched on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair. It wasn’t very comfortable, since it was a dining room chair and not a squashy one, but whatever. Aziraphale was warm and squashy enough to make it worth it.

Castiel looked ready to launch into a defense of Nightmare World when Crowley’s phone rang. Lucifer. He picked it up.

“Yeah, boss?”

“I have the itinerary,” Lucifer said. “Azazel got it done early. He scared the Hell out of poor Miss Lopez though.” There was a growl in his voice. “Bring that Castiel of yours, and if you can get Maze too, do it. Come to Lux; I’ll close it down for the night. We have things to discuss.”

“I’ve got Amenadiel here, too,” Crowley said. “We’re at Linda’s.”

“Don’t bring Linda, for Dad’s sake,” snapped Lucifer, tense. “The last thing she needs is to be inundated with Hell business! But you can bring Amenadiel. We need him to guard the swamp.”

“On it,” said Crowley. “See you in a few.”

Lucifer made affirmative sounds, and Crowley hung up. “Okay,” he said. “Lucifer says Azazel finished the itinerary early. He’s closing up Lux so we can all meet there. What do you say?” This was directed at Maze. “Wanna play Left and Right hand in a big stupid procession while we fix Islington’s mess?”

“Sounds boring,” said Maze.

“Your mother’s probably going to hate that she’s not in it,” Crowley said.

“I’m in,” said Maze.

“We’ll need you to guard the great Swamp,” Crowley told Amenadiel. “Lucifer won’t ask for your help—but I will. Will you?”

“Of course, Crowley,” said Amenadiel.

“Great,” said Crowley. “Let’s get to Lux.”

__________

[1] Hellhounds did not need to eat or poop, though both were fun.

[2] Also Aziraphale had literally called her, so there was that.

[3] Most demons opened with “Hail Satan” or “who summons me?” or the like.

[4] Unlike Islington, Naomi did not use her fingernails. She had more dignity than that. She had been pleased to find a certain shard, in this Heaven. She recognized it immediately. It was a broken piece of an ancient artifact called the Subtle Knife, and she was very pleased indeed to find it. She’d carved three holes with it—just three. That was all she needed. The creatures she released from the Empty—well. Those were not her concern.

[5] Maybe they were, Aziraphale thought darkly, but he distinctly remembered Azazel killing Kerubiel.

[6] “No offence,” Chloe had sputtered, “But you all tend to end up in ridiculous situations if left unsupervised. I’d like to be nearby, if possible.” She wasn’t exactly wrong, Aziraphale thought, and anyway, the bookshop was rather heavily warded. She would be safe there.


	10. Chapter 10

The flight to Lux was fairly quick, even with Crowley carrying a scowling, wingless Maze. Castiel, at Aziraphale’s other side, slid in the air, pirouetting in quick circles. Crowley was fairly certain that they were for the joy of it, and not any kind of battle maneuver; it lightened his heart, to see Castiel enjoying—well—anything. He didn’t fall behind, anyway. His eagle’s wings were broad and proud. You’d never guess that they were fraying at the tips, but Crowley still worried. 

Carrying this spell might be just the thing to give him purpose again, to stop that fraying from getting any worse. Fraying like that, Falling like that, happened when an angel was directionless, lost. Crowley wanted Castiel to earn himself a home with Angel Network, in Daydream World. He already had, of course, but he suspected that Castiel had to feel like he fought for it. Poor messed up Pigeon. 

Castiel twirled another circle, and from the left, like a steam train, came Amenadiel, wooshing past. The downdraft of his wings sent Castiel off balance. Amenadiel laughed.

 _“Quicker, quicker!”_ he called in Enochian, playful.

 _“A game?”_ Castiel blurted, shocked.

 _“A game! Follow!”_ And he shot straight up in the air.

They didn’t actually have time for this, and Maze squirmed in Crowley’s grasp, but Castiel definitely needed more games in his life. Crowley turned a circle, brushing wingtips with Aziraphale, mindful of his blades. Aziraphale flew in time with him, brushing wingtips back, affectionate. They caught an updraft and they watched.

Castiel followed Amenadiel straight up a little ways, and then they dived, together, a stupid, juvenile angel game of chicken. Down they plummeted, down and down, and then Castiel twisted into a fast spiral. The downdraft knocked Amenadiel off balance. He laughed, swooping to regain his balance, conceded Castiel the victor. The whole thing took about two seconds.

“Angels,” muttered Maze.

“You have no idea how badly Castiel needs a big high-ranking angel to play with him,” Crowley said dryly.

“He cheated,” Maze said.

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah. He’s Castiel. He plays dirty.”

Castiel came up alongside Crowley and Maze. _“You play games!”_ he said, delighted. _“Angels have not played games in centuries!”_

 _“I find it hard to believe that any world under Michael’s rule doesn’t play games,”_ said Amenadiel, teasing, as he came up on Castiel’s other side. _“That was well done! I haven’t seen a trick like that before.”_

 _“The apocalypse came, and the joy drained from Heaven,”_ Castiel said morosely. _“But not here?”_

 _“In my Heaven we play games, though not nearly as often as I would like. While it’s true that they’re very serious in the Silver City, there is still joy there. But you can really stretch your wings on Earth! Come. We’ve kept my brother waiting.”_ Amenadiel’s eyes twinkled[1] and he fluttered free of the thermal.

 _“Earth is a place for games,”_ Aziraphale told Castiel, smiling[2]. Castiel’s eyes brightened, pleased.

_“I like this world.”_

They followed Amenadiel the rest of the way to Lux, but once they got there, Crowley took the lead.

The boss had indeed closed the place down for them, so landing on the balcony was a waste of time. There was a little area in the back, where they put their trash, where Crowley landed instead. Beside him, Aziraphale squawked and knocked down a trashcan with his extra wings by accident.

“Was this really necessary?” he hissed.

Carefully, Crowley put Maze down. She huffed and rolled her shoulders but nodded at him in thanks.

“Yes,” Crowley told Aziraphale, watching him rearrange himself with amusement. “Very necessary.”

“Your wingspan is too large for confined spaces,” Castiel told Aziraphale, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, dear, Crowley is simply a brat,” said Aziraphale.

Amenadiel chortled. “You’ll learn!” He clapped Aziraphale on the back, and Aziraphale stumbled.

“Yeah, whatever,” Maze muttered. She put a hand on the door, and then looked back at Crowley, raised a challenging eyebrow. She pushed the door open a crack and kept staring at him, daring him. 

It took Crowley a second to figure out what on Earth she was doing. Technically speaking, Left Hand outranked Right Hand and was supposed to go first, anywhere, but screw that. Mazikeen could reduce Crowley to a sticky pulp, anyway.

“Oh, I don’t care!” he blurted. “Right Hand, Left Hand, whatever, Maze. I’m not Asteroth. Anyway, we’re Topside. None of that applies.”

Maze nodded brusquely, some of the challenge draining from her face. She pushed open the door and vanished inside.

“I do not understand,” said Castiel.

“Hell stuff, don’t worry about it,” Crowley told him, shrugging. He looked to Aziraphale, still rearranging all his wings like an enormous ball of fluff. Crowley grinned, tickled. “Alright, angel?”

“Do shut up,” Aziraphale snapped, but he kind of negated that by marching over to Crowley and taking his hand. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” He tugged Crowley toward the door.

It was the back door, so they had to go through a short hall before they got to the club proper. It was strange to see devoid of people. Below, Lucifer was drinking at the bar while Maze, who had made it to his side while Crowley was laughing at Aziraphale, poured a drink for herself. Crowley tugged Aziraphale down the stairs.

“Boss! I brought a million angels,” Crowley called. Behind him, Amenadiel snorted.

“Trust you to bring all the angels, Crowley,” Lucifer drawled. He looked up at them, searching. “No Raguel?”

“Okay, fine, I brought everyone but Raguel and Michael,” Crowley said dryly. “And Islington, but this is Islington’s fault, anyway.”

“Islington is expelled from the Network,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Ouch,” said Lucifer cheerfully. “Okay, Crowley, come here, take a look at this. You too, Castiel; Crowley tells me you’re actually competent.”

Castiel actually took a step back. “Not on a large scale,” he said nervously. He glanced from Crowley to Aziraphale and back[3].

“Hey,” Crowley said, “Promised I’d stop you from making a catastrophic mistake, yeah? Come check it out.” He beckoned with his free hand, and Castiel slipped uneasily to his side.

“A large scale?” murmured Amenadiel, behind him.

“Castiel fought a war in Heaven,” Aziraphale explained.

“ _Did_ you?” asked Lucifer, clearly surprised. “What for?”

“Raphael wanted to re-start the apocalypse,” Castiel said, eyeing Lucifer mistrustfully. “He said that it was destined. I disagreed.”

“You—fought for free will.” Lucifer boggled at Castiel. “Did you win?”

“Yes, briefly, but at great cost,” sighed Castiel. “As I said. My mistakes tend to be—devastating.”

“—Which is why we’re doing this as a team!” Crowley told him brightly. “Checks and balances! Right, Maze?”

“You’re so weird,” muttered Maze, sipping her scotch.

“Yep,” Crowley said. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand once and then let go, trotting up to Lucifer. “What do you have?”

Lucifer unrolled a slightly scorched leather scroll—a common material in Hell. Skin of a peryton, looked like. The corners were burnt, and as Lucifer unrolled it, Crowley sighed, because it was in the old, useless style that took forever to make. Someone had burned a map in the leather, and the trail into the map. It was like no one listened to Crowley when he told them to modernize.

Ugh. Well, he was volunteer now. Communication was no longer his problem.

“This is our route,” Castiel said, peering at Crowley’s shoulder.

“What’s the plan?” asked Maze.

“We head to London Below,” Lucifer said. “Find the Lady Door, and head for the Great Swamp. I’ll cast the spell; Castiel, you’ll need to sing to carry it, and you can’t stop singing. I’ll need Maze and Crowley on my right and left, and we’ll go through the door. On the other side, Azazel and Belial and their legions will meet us. We can snake our way through the affected circles, close the holes, and then return through the gate in London Below. According to the inventory, the only affected circles are Five through Eight, so we don't have to pull a Dante.” He made a face. Everyone knew that Lucifer couldn't stand Dante, Crowley thought, amused. 

“Where will I be, brother?” Amenadiel asked.

“You’ll be guarding the Great Swamp,” Lucifer said. “And Aziraphale has Islington’s Cage. We’ll need Raguel to keep the Friars entertained.”

Castiel was giving Crowley a Look[4].

“The door to Hell is in London Below,” Crowley told him. “At least, the one easily accessible to humans is, and we’ll have a human with us. It’s this thing cities do here. Don’t your cities do that too?”

“Yes,” said Castiel. “But I have never ventured down there.”

“Not much to see, I agree,” Lucifer said gruffly. “But Islington’s Cage is in London Below, and so is the door to Hell. As well as the Lady Door, an Opener, for whom we are going through all this trouble.”

“Openers can open and close doors,” explained Crowley when Castiel looked confused. “And cracks. And holes. The whole point of the spell is to get her in and out of Hell safely.”

Castiel blinked. His blue eyes swung to Lucifer.

“What?” said Lucifer.

Castiel looked back at Aziraphale. “You trust this?” he asked skeptically. Crowley was mildly insulted. 

“I trust that Lucifer is doing all of this in earnest, yes,” Aziraphale said. “He wants the holes closed. And he does not permanently hurt living humans, unless they are truly despicable. The Lady Door is not despicable.”

Castiel nodded a little. “Alright.” He turned back to a bewildered Lucifer. “Where is the song I must sing?”

________

[1] Keeping Lucifer waiting was one of his joys in life. And this new angel was clever! Clearly a soldier, clearly battle scarred, but he seemed to like the attention. Amenadiel was going to make friends even if it killed him, he decided, rather cheerfully.

[2] Aziraphale hadn’t played any sort of game in Heaven or with any of the host in thousands and thousands of years, but then, he was a citizen of a different sort of Heaven than Amenadiel was. Amenadiel, as the Eldest, was always shown the best of everything; Aziraphale, a demoted underling, mostly got shown the door. It didn’t matter. He had Crowley to play with, these days, and Crowley was more than amenable. Besides, Earth _was_ a place for games.

[3] It was—refreshing. That he could state such anxieties aloud here. Crowley and Aziraphale did it all the time, and were never dismissed, and ribbed only gently for it. Such a statement would not go over well, at home. 

[4] The Look said, “Crowley. What the actual Hell are they talking about.”


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley was incredibly pleased that he did not, in fact, have to explain this plan to Raguel. And he was also pleased that he didn’t have to carry Raguel over to London, because Raguel would be beside himself, what with all the wings. He was less pleased that he had to carry Mazikeen, because she was a scowling, sullen burden, but still.

He was also less pleased that Aziraphale was carrying Raguel because it meant that Aziraphale wasn’t flying with him. Amenadiel had stayed back to keep him company; they would fly over later, and presumably pick up the dogs, Chloe, and Beatrice, too, to sit in Aziraphale’s bookshop, as promised.

Lucifer flew point, his shining white wings against the sky. As they got closer, so did yesterday’s dawn. At Crowley’s side flew Castiel, eagle’s wings proud.

 _“Crowley, you’re_ certain _,”_ Castiel murmured, low, in Enochian.

 _“Very,”_ Crowley replied in the same language. _“I’m not afraid of him. I would never do this if I were afraid **[1]**.”_

 _“But has he fooled you?”_ Castiel fretted.

_“To what gain, Columba livia **[2]**? Our Lucifer does not lie, of that I am sure. But if it is manipulation, then why? I know there are holes in Hell. I have seen them myself. I have walked beside him in Hell, before, and no harm came to me. He hates Hell. There’s no other reason for us to go back down there other than to fix the holes.”_

Castiel did not seem comforted, but he flew a little closer to Crowley, brushing wingtips. It was an affectionate gesture.

 _“I believe_ you _,”_ he said _._

 _“That’s all you need, right now,”_ Crowley assured him. _“The rest can come later.”_

“Will you stop your _screeching_ ,” Maze muttered in his arms, grumpy[3].

“Cold?” Crowley asked her, frowning. Maze was a grumpy individual, but not often that sharp without a reason.

“Freezing,” growled the demon. He thought so. Hell-forged demons were not made for the cold, and they definitely were not made for the thin air and harsh sun of the high atmosphere. Crowley was a snake, but he’d been an angel first; cold at altitude didn’t bother him.

“I can do a miracle?” Crowley offered. “I don’t mind.” Best to ask, when it came to a Lesser Demon. Some of them didn’t like it.

“Don’t bother. We’re landing soon, right?”

“Should be. Hang on, I’m going to screech. _Hey boss! Hang a right; you’re headed to Wales!_ ”

“Ugh,” said Maze, rubbing at her ear.

Lucifer whistled a funny little ditty that was a saying among angels, but difficult to translate. It was a playful couplet about the wind and the clouds and the Magnetic North, and about how you can know all about those and still have no idea where you were flying, if you’d never been to a place. It had a contradictory double-meaning that claimed absolute knowledge of the world.

 _“Bullshit! You’ve been to London! A bunch of times!”_ Crowley laughed.

 _“Never in the lead!”_ Lucifer turned a playful circle against the stars. It was good to see him flying, really. Boss got all weird about his wings.

 _“Oh, follow me, you idiot,”_ Crowley said, chuckling. He took the lead, much to Castiel’s apparent surprise. They soared downward.

Aziraphale liked the entrance to London Below that led to the Friars at Blackfriar’s Bridge. No Friar would be caught dead opening a door to Crowley. But Crowley knew a certain Marquis, in London Below, and the old bastard owed him a lifetime of favors[4].

Crowley had a flat in Mayfair, which was where Down Street was, in Above, anyway. He’d had the flat for—well—an uncomfortably long time, so he knew the area very well, better than he knew most of London, which was saying something. He led them to Brick Street, where he knew he could open a door.

Carefully, he put Maze down.

“So,” said Crowley, “Ground rules.”

“I have been to London Below before, Crowley,” Lucifer drawled.

“With Aziraphale, and with Aziraphale’s people,” Crowley said. “Not with me. My connections are different.”

“Well, now I’m interested,” purred Maze, dusting herself off like Crowley had left cooties on her.

“Who are your connections, Crowley?” asked Castiel with a kind of forced patience.

“Guy goes by the name Marquis de Carabas,” said Crowley. “I’ve known him forever. Can’t trust him a jot unless there’s favors involved, and there are. He’s a bit single minded that way. Do not,” now he glared at Lucifer, “Accept anything he gives you. Do not give out favors to this man, because he will cash them in, and it might cost you your life. Don’t agree to anything. Do you understand?”

“Crowley, I can’t imagine you dealing well with such a man,” Lucifer drawled.

Crowley glared, insulted. It was just London! London was Crowley’s city. He’d been in London for centuries. It was his third city in human history, and all its weird and messed up people belonged to him, Above and Below. It was home, especially Mayfair. He could deal with _home_. “He owes me eternal favors. I got him his coat when he was a boy, _and_ I saved his life, at least three times.”

He turned to Mazikeen. “The rules change in London Below. I really need you to follow my lead, here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Maze. “I’ll follow your stupid lead.”

Crowley nodded and looked to Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, straight and to the point. Good Pigeon.

“Okay. Showtime.” Crowley spun on his heel.

Brick Street was weird. It changed block to block; sometimes a back alley, and sometimes it morphed into three story homes. There was a Sheridan there, too, and it abutted a church. Crowley picked the nearest brick wall.

There was a pattern to this.

He took off his sunglasses and tucked them away, and he tapped the first brick.

“First stands a Porter, then an Oyster wife,” he sang softly, and tapped the second brick. It was an old song, from the seventeenth century. It was about the draw of Orpheus’ music, and with any luck, it would draw out the Marquis, if he was feeling curious[5].

“Doth stint her cry, and stay her steps to heare him,  
Then comes a cut‐purse ready with a knife,  
And then a country client passeth neere him.  
There stands the constable, there stands the whore,  
And listning to the song, heed not each other.”

“It’s adorable that you still believe I can be summoned by _song_ , my fiery, fiendish friend.” The Marquis had not been there a moment ago, but here he was, strolling out into view. Crowley saw Castiel jump, out of the corner of his eye.

He was a slender man, clad in a great dandyish coat the color of wet pavement at midnight, and high black boots. His skin was very dark, and the clothes underneath his coat were ragged, as always, but he wore them proudly; he made them splendid. Funny fellow, the old Marquis, Crowley thought with a strange kind of warped fondness. The man was such a pain in the arse. 

“Oh, now this is interesting,” purred Maze, eyes fixed on the Marquis like a leopard.

The Marquis went very still. “What is that?” he demanded[6].

“Lesser Demon,” Crowley said casually. He let his eyes flash, just a little.

 _“Lesser?”_ scoffed the Marquis. “Why, she’s more splendid and shining than you have ever been, Anthony Crowley.”

“He’s a talker,” Maze told Lucifer, clearly pretending to be unimpressed[7].

“I see that,” Lucifer drawled.

“Alright, enough,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “When’s the next Market, Marquis?”

“Planned that, did you?” The Marquis asked. “It’s tomorrow. Piccadilly Circus. Is that all?”

“No. I need entrance Below for my friends and myself. And I need to find the Lady Door, but that’s not your kind of gig, is it?”

“It can be,” said the Marquis, eyes gleaming. “What are you offering, demon?”

“Your continued existence,” Crowley said, bluffing.

“You are a very bad liar,” drawled the Marquis. “You know that’s not how this works.”

Behind Crowley, Maze snorted, amused. He did not turn to glare at her, though he wanted to.

“Fine. I can find a rat. I just need to get in. I believe you owe me entry to and exit from the Below world, and will for the rest of time, yes?”

The Marquis wrinkled his nose. “Must you bring that up?”

“Always,” said Crowley, and smiled. “How’s the Mushroom’s people[8]?”

The Marquis scowled. He marched over to a manhole and lifted it with a grudging clatter. “Fungal as ever,” he said.

“I liked the Mushroom, last Market,” Crowley said.

“Try it raw, why don’t you,” the Marquis muttered. He crossed his arms sullenly.

Crowley laughed. “Hardly! Thank you, Marquis.”

“Don’t mention it. No. Really. Don’t mention it. Don’t want it getting out that I’m just— _giving_ favors away,” he scowled.

“You’re not giving favors away; I have something on you, remember? That’s not how this works,” Crowley said cheerfully.

The Marquis’ scowl deepened.

“Boss, you first,” Crowley said, gesturing to the manhole.

“Are you kidding,” Lucifer said.

Crowley stared at him. “Um. No? Called the Marquis and everything?” he gestured to the Marquis[9].

“It’s a manhole, Crowley. This is Armani.”

Crowley gestured to his own jacket[10]. “Yeah. This too. It’s a door to London Below.”

“I will go,” Castiel said, clearly irritated.

“Hear that? He will go,” drawled the Marquis.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley muttered. “Castiel—don’t wander, okay? And I give you permission to use that sword of yours if you have to; just try not to kill anyone. It’s against the rules, here. London Below is something else, though.”

Castiel nodded curtly. Without another word, he walked up to the manhole, gave it the old hairy eyeball, and jumped in.

“I’m last,” Crowley said. “I have to convince this prat to close the door behind us.” He made a face at the Marquis, who scowled back.

Mazikeen sighed. “Fine.” She marched up to the manhole and hopped down it.

Crowley met Lucifer’s eyes.

“This is disgusting,” he said.

“Welcome to London Below,” said Crowley. The Marquis snorted but said nothing[11].

“Wasn’t this gross last time,” Lucifer pointed out.

“That’s because Friars like angels. It’s almost like it’s their religion.” Crowley gasped in mock-surprise.

“I’m demoting you,” Lucifer muttered, and jumped down the manhole.

“I’m your favorite advisor!” Crowley called after him cheerfully. He turned to the Marquis. “Close it up behind me,” he said. “Not sure if I’ll need you to get out. Here.” He handed the Marquis fifty pence. It wasn’t hard to make it an unlucky coin. “Thanks.”

The Marquis took the coin and bit it. He hummed, pleased, and put it in his pocket[12]. “You know how to find me,” he said lightly.

“Yep,” said Crowley, and hopped down the manhole.

____________________

[1] This was kind of a lie, but he didn’t mean it to be. Crowley would absolutely do this if he were afraid, but he’d be miserable and stammering and swearing about it the whole time. He was annoyed about having to go back to Hell, but he wasn’t scheming a way of escape, or daydreaming about murdering Lucifer, or worrying about Aziraphale’s safety regarding demons or any of that. He was here because he chose to be, and he would never choose Lucifer if he were afraid of him. 

[2] Enochian was painfully specific, when it came to species. It really wasn’t a language made for pet names. Castiel got the idea, anyway: Crowley had apparently decided he was a pigeon and was sticking to it. It was kind of –nice, in truth. As far as Castiel could tell, nicknames among humans were given to very close friends or family members. It was an honor, really, especially coming from sweet-natured, skittish Crowley. 

[3] She’d never bothered to learn Enochian. Ugh, why? She couldn’t even make half the sounds, it hurt her ears, and it wasn’t like she could go Upstairs anyway. Angels were the worst. Who even _wanted_ to understand them?

[4] In long ago days, when the Marquis was just starting out, Crowley had draped about his shoulders as a snake and whispered, whispered, whispered. It had gotten them both in trouble, but the moment Crowley had laid eyes on the boy – for he had been a boy then – he’d known that this one was clever and was a friend worth making. Now the Marquis was a man, though still a young one; time went funny in the Below. Many years had passed, but he still remembered Crowley.

[5] Which he often wasn’t, but he knew Crowley’s voice, anyway. Incredibly inconvenient, that demon.

[6] an irrelevantly large number of years in London Below gave a man certain talents. One of those talents was picking out when _someone was not human._

[7] This one looked like he would be _so_ much fun to break. Surely, she could bounty hunt him for someone, right?

[8] Crowley liked the Mushroom People. Well. The whole thing was horrifying, really, but all of London Below was like that. If you kind of—ignored—the great fungus slowly taking over their brains, they were funny, and they cooked slices of the Mushroom and sold it at the market. Had to make sure it was fully cooked, though, otherwise the Mushroom spores would eat your brain, too. It was tasty when they put roasted the Mushroom on toast, though.

[9] The Marquis often felt like he was surrounded by imbeciles but at the moment that feeling was particularly strong.

[10] Torn but repaired when he manifested and then put away his wings. Terrible treatment for a good jacket, really, but sacrifices had to be made. Not that Lucifer didn’t always unconsciously miracle his jackets untorn, because that was how he thought manifesting one’s wings worked. Double standard much. 

[11] Boss. Crowley was calling this clown Boss. Nope, no, negative, he did not want to know, not at all. This was clearly insanity, and they were definitely on some Great Adventure, and he wanted no part of it. The last Great Adventure he’d been on had been deeply, incredibly unpleasant, thank you. Sometimes, not asking questions was best.

[12] And this was the real reason that he still did things like this. An unlucky coin was dead useful for someone like the Marquis, who traded in favors. He did owe Crowley infinite debt, it was true and also annoying. But at least the demon tipped well. 


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel had mantled his wings at the bottom of the manhole, gripping his sword tightly. Even Lucifer looked uneasy, and Maze flicked her blades, clearly itching for a fight.

“Don’t die!” called the Marquis cheerfully from above, and he covered the manhole, plunging them into the murky darkness of London Below, and exactly into the heart of the May Fair.

Crowley sighed. He’d actually been to the May Fair quite a bit, as it lived in Above, and as its ghost Below. No place in London Below was safe, of course, but he knew the May Fair pretty well. The place was lined with vendors, selling food of all kinds: there were the Mushroom’s people, selling slices of the Mushroom. Another stall had roasted pork, but Crowley knew that that pork came from one of the many children of the Beast of London. It smelled delicious, though. A little ways away was a long pole. It was set up even underground, and an acrobat swung in circles around it. Men boxed with bare fists beside it.

The place was filled with milling, shouting people. Every one of them had blood under their fingernails.

“Put your sword away,” Crowley told Castiel urgently. “This place is a powder keg; one wrong step and everyone goes nuts.”

“Isn’t that all the more reason to keep it out?” growled Castiel. He was watching a small group of tall, pale women who regarded him with hungry violet eyes. Each was directing her come-hither eyes at them, looking for all the world like very fine prostitutes, courtesans, even. Crowley knew better. 

“Hello,” murmured Lucifer, peering at them around Castiel’s wings.

“Velvets,” Crowley drawled. “They’re like vampires, you know. They’ll suck out all your Grace and come back for the rest of your soul. Best leave them be.”

“Interesting,” murmured Maze, flicking her blades.

“No, seriously, put away your weapons, this is the May Fair,” Crowley snapped. “This place explodes in like a heartbeat if you step wrong.”

Carefully, Castiel folded his wings. His sword vanished up his sleeve, and he looked at Crowley. “The May Fair?” he asked.

“London Below,” Lucifer sighed. He straightened and looked over at Maze, who slipped her daggers away sullenly. “It’s very literal.”

“Some cities have memories,” Crowley explained to Castiel. “I thought you had Below Cities in Nightmare World?”

“We do,” Castiel said. “I steer my humans clear. I do not go there.”

Crowley nodded. “Okay. Fair enough. Come on. We shouldn’t linger here.” He beckoned, and his little party of three followed him. He could feel the eyes of the Velvets at his back. Yeah—they’d misstepped, Crowley thought to himself. A sudden appearance, Castiel’s wings, the blades, Lucifer in his fine clothes[1]—they had to get out of here, quickly.

Crowley could go to this market and purchase all kinds of neat things by himself. He’d got rare books, lost books, for Aziraphale here, before. But then, he’d frequented the real May Fair markets, too. He knew how to blend here. Bloody Lucifer and Mazikeen had never blended in their lives. Castiel had, but he was all set up as someone from Above, and he stood out.

“Spare a coin?” A little boy, huge dark eyes, had wandered up to them. He had a rat on his shoulder.

Crowley lunged in before Lucifer could say anything about disgusting children. This kid was not just any kid; everything Below was more than it seemed. “My greetings to your Lord,” he said, nodded to the rat.

The boy straightened up and stopped looking so sad. “You know my Lord?” he asked.

“Not personally,” said Crowley. “My name is Crowley, Hell’s Left Hand.” He did a neat little bow, and while doing so, he sort of motioned for his companions to shut up and stay behind him[2]. “And your Lord?”

“He is Lord Swiftpaw,” said the boy. “Fastest and cleverest of rats. We are looking for tithings for the nest.”

“My companions make poor tithings,” Crowley said dryly. “Trust me when I say you don’t want them.” This was going to blow up in his face. This boy would scream, and the people with the blood under their nails would hear, and the whole place would blow. They’d stopped the May Fair Above because of the riots. Below, the riots could rage for months. “But there were some eligible Velvets back behind us, eyeing my buddy here.” He nodded to Castiel. 

The boy eyed Castiel, like Castiel was a sack medium-rare of filet mignon. “He’d be a good tithing,” he said. Castiel blinked.

“Disobedient,” Crowley said dryly, trying to stay calm. “He started a rebellion all by himself, and he won. Not good for the rats, I should think.”

The rat on the boy’s shoulder wrinkled its nose. Without a word, they moved on.

Crowley blew out a breath.

“That was weird,” Mazikeen said.

“What just happened?” Lucifer demanded.

“The rats wanted Castiel as a slave, now come on.”

“They—wanted me as a slave,” Castiel said, puzzled. “The _rats_?”

“Yeah, you really should not hang out Below,” Crowley drawled, stepping forward swiftly through a crowd, his companions behind him. “It’s kind of a hazard to your—” and he walked face first into a woman in a long, black dress. 

She whirled on him.

“Insolent,” she hissed.

“Oh, you’re one of the Lord Raven’s Ladies, aren’t you?” Crowley said weakly. Shit.

“He has attacked Our Lady Raven!” screeched a man far to their left.

“Sorry?” said Crowley.

“Put him to death!” howled the boy and his rat.

“What?” blurted Castiel.

“Overreaction, it’s the May Fair—it does weird things to humans— _run!_ ” 

The May Fair Riot formed behind them, swift and brutal. Lucifer spluttering incredulously at his side, Crowley ran to the far end of the great, underground cavern as fast as he could go. Castiel and Maze kept up behind them, followed by howls and fire. This was just bloody typical, Crowley thought sourly, feet pounding the damp, moldy pavement. London Below was the worst. 

Luckily, they were still near Brick Street, and Crowley had some tricks up his sleeves. London Below was still London, after all, and Crowley knew all about London, even the disgusting, grimy corners of it that nurtured riots from the blessed eighteenth century. 

Crowley believed with all his might, and he and Lucifer ran headfirst through a solid brick wall, closely followed by Castiel and Mazikeen. It hardened again behind them, plunging them into total darkness. Crowley could hear running water.

He snapped his fingers, and light erupted in his palm. It lit Maze’s supremely irritated face.

“I could have taken them,” she said, scowling.

“You would have caused an Incident,” said Crowley. “And we would never find Door.”

“We already caused an Incident, or did you not notice?” Maze drawled.

“Now, now, Maze,” said Lucifer, also lit half in shadow in Crowley’s pale light. “That was clearly an accident.”

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered, sarcastic. “I feel so much better now.”

“What now?” Castiel said, ever the soldier. He stood a little ways away, mostly in darkness. Dramatic bastard, old Castiel, Crowley thought fondly.

“Aziraphale will meet us at Islington’s Cage,” Crowley said, sighing. “The entrance to the swamp is at Down Street. But the Marquis said that the next Floating Market is at Piccadilly, and we’ll probably be able to find the Lady Door there.”

“Another Fair?” Lucifer asked. “I think I’m kind of over London Below Fairs, if it’s all the same to you, Crowley.”

“Floating Market’s different,” Crowley sighed. “There’s a truce for that. And it’s not far; we shouldn't need a guide or a rat like I thought we might. And once we get Door, she can just—take us to the cage without any walking or anything. Easier to find her first. Everyone goes to the Floating Market.”

“Whatever,” Maze muttered. “Which way?”

Beyond the brick wall they had slipped through[3] was a filthy sewer, one of the old-style ones, with the arching bricks that looked like a vault, like the domed ceiling of a church. Crowley knew the way to Piccadilly via London Below, at least, so he took the lead. There was a little walkway beside the rushing water. They started down it in Crowley's half-light. It was damp and grown over with algae, slippery and stinking. The bricks made for uneven footing, and beside them, constantly, the sewage water gurgled. They walked, and they walked, and they walked. 

Crowley could practically hear Lucifer's scowl. “This,” Lucifer said into the half-light at last, “is disgusting. And I can barely see.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Then make a light.”

Lucifer was behind him, but he could definitely hear his scowl deepening. “No.”

“You’re the _light bearer._ Power doesn’t come from Him Above, boss. It comes from you. We’ve been through this. You know this.”

“It’s cheating,” Lucifer said stiffly[4].

“We’re in London Below. This place is made for cheating.”

Silence behind him.

And then the sewer flooded with light, bright and bright and bright, the sun at noon, the lights of a stage, a thousand, thousand stars. Crowley’s little spark was pathetic in comparison, and he snuffed it.

“ _That’s_ more like it!” he said and turned to smile at Lucifer.

Lucifer was frowning, dark eyes hooded. “Is it?” he asked, low and uncertain as he so rarely was.

“Well it’s better than stepping in everything disgusting down here,” called Maze from behind him.

Crowley wasn’t really that good at feelings, but even he could see the hurt that hunched Lucifer’s shoulders[5]. “It’s your gift, boss,” he said softly. “Don’t let that bastard take it from you.”

Lucifer quirked a small smile. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Onward, then?” he asked Crowley.

“Onward!” said Crowley, “With better lighting!”

Behind him, Lucifer huffed, amused.

Though better lit, the smell of the sewer didn’t improve, and it didn't get any less damp or less slippery. Algae grew in slick sheets all over; it was clear the place flooded, from time to time. They marched on.

“So,” Lucifer said dryly after a while, “Second time in London Below. Totally different, but I remember the original May Fair. I went to one, you know.”

Crowley gave him a weird look. “When?”

“Eighteenth century.” 

“Ah.” Crowley smiled wryly. “Aziraphale and I were fighting about the May Fair in the eighteenth century.” That had been fun, Crowley thought fondly.

“You were fighting?” Castiel asked, concerned.

“Not really. Chess games, that sort of thing. We couldn’t decide what to do about it. The riots were getting bad, but the reasoning behind them was pretty good so neither of us could figure out which side to support. Anyway, they shut down the fair, in the end, and it moved to London Below. Problem solved.”

“You mean, you did nothing, and the humans fixed it,” Maze drawled.

“Bingo,” said Crowley, cheerful.

Castiel huffed a laugh.

“Hello,” Lucifer murmured. “What’s that?” He pointed.

Crowley followed his finger.

A human wouldn’t have been able to see it in Lucifer’s blazing light, but Crowley could. There was a dim green light shining upriver—upsewer—from them, approaching slowly.

“Oh, good,” he muttered and shrugged open his wings. He plucked out a covert--which pinched, but it was fine--and then knelt to dip it into the sewer waters. He focused very hard on disconnecting it from himself; generic demon feather, he thought. A blighted thing without a paradox to redeem it. He pulled his essence from the feather and soaked up essence of sewer instead. Generic, filthy demon feather. No connection back to Crowley; any spell done with it would not touch him. This was important, if he was going to give it to any denizen of London Below. 

“What are you doing?” Maze asked.

“Making something to bargain with,” said Crowley. “That’s one of the Sewer Folk. I think we can hitch a ride.” He stood, shaking the excess sewer water off the feather.

“Gross,” said Maze.

“I don’t know what you just did but it was disgusting,” Lucifer agreed.

“Wait ‘til you meet our new friend,” Crowley said dryly. “Ahoy!” He looked at Lucifer. “Dim the lights a bit, yeah? You’re going to blind the poor thing.”

“Lights on, lights off, make up your mind,” Lucifer drawled, but the lights dimmed as requested.

“Thanks,” Crowley murmured, and then called out: “Are you going to the Floating Market? Can we hitch a ride? I have coin!”

“The Market is tomorrow,” Castiel said softly.

“Time goes funny down here,” Crowley told him, shrugging. “It’s today, it’s tomorrow, it’s last week, whatever.” He turned back to the sewer.

There was a tall, thin man on a raft floating toward them. He had a long beard, matted with muck and broken things and something that looked suspiciously like a pink tampon dispenser. His hair was equally long and equally matted, bits of bone and used toilet paper and all manner of nasties braided in there like badges of honor. Ugh. There was a reason that Crowley never went to London Below.

“That,” said Maze, “Smells terrible.”

“Nope,” Crowley murmured to her. “ _He_ smells terrible.”

Maze rolled her eyes.

The little raft drifted closer, as Lucifer’s floodlights dimmed. The man’s lantern, burning dim copper-green, casted strange shadows. Those sunken eyes flicked to Crowley.

“We’re headed to the Floating Market,” Crowley said. “Are you?”

The man nodded, slowly.

“Can we have a lift? I’ve got coin.” He held out the feather. “Blighted feather. Essence of sewer. Came from a demon; very rare. Fair trade for the four of us?”

The man’s eyes fixed on the feather and widened. He nodded, and slowly polled his raft closer to them, to the edge of the walk. The smell washed over them, dead things and decay, and sewage left too long underground, on top of sewage left too long in the sun.

“Ugh,” said Lucifer. “Smells like axe body spray and teenage sweat gone rancid[6].”

“That is—not what that smells like,” Castiel said.

“Yeah? Then what’s it smell like, hotshot?”

“Decay,” Castiel said, dark and gloomy as always. “Death.”

“Well aren’t you a bundle of laughs,” Lucifer muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You’re both wrong,” Maze scowled. “It’s just sewer. I’ve smelled worse in Hell.” She stepped up to Crowley’s side. “We’re getting on that thing?”

“Yep,” said Crowley. He was with Maze: the sewer-person stank of sewage, no surprise, but also Castiel had it with the decay. Human waste left out in the humidity too long, rotting algae and industrial waste, all rolled into one. Lovely. But the Sewer Folk were very useful. He watched the raft bump the walkway gently.

Maze hopped on first. She turned to give Crowley a challenging look.

Testing, Crowley realized. Seeing how true he was to his word, that he didn’t care for hierarchies, that he didn’t care if she did things first. He shrugged at her and hopped on after.

“Boss? Pidge?” he called.

“This is disgusting,” Lucifer said, but he tiptoed onto the raft, grimacing at the muck. It looked to be made of driftwood and bits of plastic and various bits of debris all lashed together. Crowley didn’t think about it too hard.

Castiel hopped onto the raft without complaint. He seemed more curious than anything else.

The Sewer man came up to Crowley, in all his stinking glory. He cocked his bearded and filthy head, eyes calculating.

“No funny business,” said Crowley. He passed him the feather. “It’s a bad choice. We’re tougher than we look, promise. We just want to get to the Floating Market.”

The man examined the feather. He sniffed it, even though it was totally imbued with sewer. He met Crowley’s eyes at last, nodded, and went back to his pole. He pushed away from the walkway. There was a long, stinking silence as they drifted back toward the center of the sewer.

“So, do you talk?” Lucifer asked him at last, curious.

Unimpressed, the Sewer Man glared.

“That’s a no,” drawled Castiel.

“Sassy little thing, aren’t you?” Lucifer muttered.

Maze rolled her eyes. “So. Market,” she told Crowley.

“Market. We look for Door. And, uh, don’t eat anything unless I vet it, okay? There’s some weird stuff there. Also: no buying people.” He glared at Maze. “There’s some slave markets. Just—don’t. And don’t go setting them free, either.” That was addressed to both Lucifer and Castiel. “They’re straight off the Triangle Trade, okay. It’s time frozen in amber. You won’t be able to change it because it already happened.”

“That makes no sense,” Lucifer said.

“It’s London Below; making sense is overrated,” Crowley muttered[7].

“You know,” said Lucifer mildly, “The more I find myself in London Below, the more I dislike it.”

Crowley felt his hackles rise. Below or Above, beautiful or terrible, it was still his city. He was the only one allowed to complain about how disgusting and terrible London Below was. “LA Below will be just as miserable, mark my words."

“I can’t imagine it,” Lucifer said haughtily. Ah, he’d hit a nerve, Crowley thought, unafraid. Good. That’s what Lucifer got for insulting his London.

“Try it sometime,” said Crowley. “Every city has a dark underbelly.”

“He’s right, it sucks,” drawled Maze. “I don’t like cowboys. Boring.”

“You’ve been to LA Below?” blurted Lucifer.

“I’m a bounty hunter,” drawled Maze. “Of course I’ve been to LA Below. There’s an entrance right below Lux, in the tunnels.”

“You learn something new every day,” Lucifer murmured. “I’ll have to see it, someday.”

The Sewer man chuffed a silent laugh. He signed something to Crowley.

“There’s a language I don’t know,” Lucifer murmured.

“Gift of Tongues, huh? Not Hands.” Crowley shrugged[8]. “He says you’re an Upworlder and that you shouldn’t go Below. Talk about irony.”

Maze snorted, amused. Even Castiel’s lips twitched.

“So where are you from, then, Captain?” Lucifer asked the Sewer man. “You must be from somewhere, and I have a translator.”

Maze huffed. “You’re screwed now,” she told Crowley on a drawl.

Crowley was perfectly aware of this, but it was still kind of amusing. “Don’t remind me.”

The Sewer man cocked his head, and he signed.

“He says he’s from the Upworld,” Crowley said, surprised. “He… helped build the sewers. They’re in his blood and in his veins. When they set the last brick, the Upworld went dim and uninteresting, so he came back and came home to his sewer. He’s been here ever since. They built the enclosed sewer in like, the nineteenth century,” he added, mostly to Castiel, who was the only one who looked interested.

“Well that’s—an interesting life,” Lucifer said. He sounded like it was the worst life he had ever heard. “Tell me, did you truly desire—”

“NOPE!” Crowley said, lunging. He grabbed Lucifer’s arm and pulled. “We do not play the desire game Below! The rules are different! You prat!”

Lucifer shook him off, scowling.

“The—desire game?” Castiel asked softly.

“He can bring out human desires,” drawled Maze, sounding bored. “They go all googly and they give him the thing they desire most. It’s cheating. Good torture will give you the same result.” She smirked like a knife.

“And that’s—acceptable.” Castiel narrowed his eyes at Lucifer, who looked confused.

“He doesn’t hurt anyone,” Crowley told Castiel. He kind of knew where this was going.

“Of course not.” Lucifer sounded horrified at the thought.

“But it is kind of skeevy,” said Maze. This wasn’t so much because she thought it was skeevy. Crowley could tell, just by the look in her eyes, that it was more because it would rile Castiel up. And she was kind of right. It was definitely skeevy.

Well. She was right on both counts, because it was also clearly pissing Castiel off. 

“It is not,” Lucifer spluttered.

“Is too,” Crowley told him, amused.

“Crowley,” Castiel growled.

“It’s fine,” Crowley told him, more gently. “He really doesn’t hurt people. He works with Chloe, at the LAPD, remember? Mostly he uses it to interrogate suspects. It’s kind of embarrassing.” He paused, then added, “Our world is not your world.”

“What was yours like?” Lucifer asked. “Your me. Besides crazy.”

“Manipulative,” Castiel growled. “Devious. Cruel. Fickle. He hated humanity.”

Lucifer shivered visibly. “Definitely not me,” he said, but it came out kind of nervous. Crowley exchanged a look with Maze.

“I am not yet certain,” replied Castiel. Lucifer’s eyes flashed red, but Crowley clucked at him.

“Easy now, you’ll just prove his point,” he murmured.

Lucifer blew out a breath. “How much longer?” he snapped. “This raft is insufferable.”

It was a good while longer, in truth, because traveling by raft down a sewer pipe was not the fastest mode of transportation. Crowley exchanged another look with Maze, and by silent agreement she went to stand beside Lucifer, and Crowley went to Castiel.

“I’m sorry,” muttered Castiel. “It is—difficult. I despised him, in my world.”

“Sure,” said Crowley, shrugging. “He sounds like a bastard. But this guy has no idea where all that rage comes from. This guy? He just wants to snuggle his humans. Promise.”

Castiel chuckled. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Crowley patted him. “Poor traumatized Pigeon.” 

“I’m not traumatized.”

“You are _so_ traumatized. Don’t worry. That’s what Angel Network’s for. We’re all messed up, and we band together, Earthbound Angels and Demons.” He smiled.

Castiel inched over and leaned his shoulder against Crowley’s. “I do like your world.” 

“Well, now you’re part of it. It’ll be okay. Promise.”

_______

[1] Never mind Crowley’s fine clothes; he wasn’t really dressed for this.

[2] Maze stared at Crowley’s flopping, flailing hands and wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean.

[3] Bricks on Brick Street had all kinds of weird tricks, and sometimes you could convince them to do things, if you were a demon. Crowley liked Brick Street as an entrance for that exact reason.

[4] He had talked about this with Linda, after Aziraphale had apparently explained Functions to her. Crowley was right. Light was like desire, really; it was one of Lucifer’s gifts. But unlike desire, it was a loaded one, one which held a great deal of meaning. He’d created stars. He’d gloried in that light, sung hosannas to his Father bathed in his own glow. When he had Fallen, he’d burned, bearing the light down to Hell. It was complicated.

[5] Castiel saw it too. He was biting his tongue, mostly, trying to learn more about Daydream Lucifer and this Mazikeen. He watched, fascinated, as Lucifer’s shoulders slumped, as his voice took on an aching quality, like a wounded child. Mazikeen looked mostly bored with this, but she stayed quiet, rolling her eyes. Strange, strange, strange.

[6] Many thanks to [elleflies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elleflies/pseuds/elleflies) for giving me this line because I got stuck here for a good long while.

[7] He’d tried to fix it once. It had ended extremely poorly, and everyone went back to their defaults afterwards, anyway. London Below wasn’t big on change.

[8] This was preposterous because Lucifer could speak sign language perfectly well, thank you. But it had been—harder to learn than other languages, strangely so. He’d never encountered this particular version of it. Gift of Tongues indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So real quick! I did a bunch of research for London Below, of course, but if anyone knows more about the Mayfair Riots of the 1700s - my research indicated that they were the lower classes rioting for rights, but I may be wrong - please let me know!


	13. Chapter 13

Eventually, they reached their destination. Crowley waved goodbye to their helpful Sewer Guy, and he led his weird little party of three up to Piccadilly Circus. Or, well. It was to Brewer Street actually, but that was okay. Crowley popped a manhole, and they found themselves crawling out into the Above street, but not the Above street. There were specific ways to enter the Market, but Crowley was good at believing in things, and he was a demon. He could make this work. Besides, Brewer Street, in London Below, had a Brewer.

Best avoid her. He didn’t fancy being demon ale[1].

“This way,” said Crowley.

Dusk had fallen, because time in London Below was totally messed up. Piccadilly Circus was just a few streets away, and as they approached, vendors started spilling out onto side streets, as the market sprawled. Crowley led his little party onwards as the crowd thickened.

Piccadilly Circus was not big enough for the Floating Market, not really. The Market’s heart zig-zagged around Shaftsbury Memorial Fountain, and then down Coventry street, but even that was still too small. It spilled onto Shaftsbury Avenue, and Glasshouse Street and around the Piccadilly tube station. London Above cars roared and rushed through it all, but they never quite managed to hit the vendors. Above tourists walked the outskirts, instinctively avoiding the Market, just for this one night. It was filled to bursting with London Below merchants and inhabitants, buying and selling. It smelled of roasted meats and cooking vegetables and unwashed bodies and sounded like vendors hawking their wares. Crowley liked the Floating Market. He always had. Weirdness aside, it felt like London, like home. He pulled Castiel, Lucifer and Maze toward the Shaftsbury Memorial Fountain.

“Wait,” said Maze. Her eyes had fallen on a beautiful knife set, under the patchwork green tarp of a sinister-looking vendor.

“Cursed,” said Crowley, tugging at her.

“Better,” she replied, eyes gleaming.

“Really, really cursed,” Crowley told her. He pulled.

“Really, really better,” she returned, holding her ground.

“Really, really not,” Crowley spluttered.

“Look at you, getting along,” said Lucifer, delighted.

“This is not getting along!” cried Crowley.

“He is _annoying,_ ” snarled Maze, jerking her arm out of Crowley’s grasp. “As if I couldn’t handle a cursed blade!”

“It’s a London Below cursed blade! Human curses! Someone only _knows_ what that thing’ll do!” Crowley spluttered. “Humans who can do black arts are the _worst_.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why I want it,” Maze snapped.

Crowley stepped back. “I will never understand you.” He looked back for Castiel, trying to commiserate, only to find him gone. “Uh—boss?”

“Hmm?” asked Lucifer. When Crowley turned to him, he found him perusing the wares three stalls down. The vendor was selling evil-looking jewelry. He also saw Maze dash off to buy her cursed knives out of the corner of his eye. Great. Now he had to be around cursed knives. He strolled up to Lucifer and pulled his hand away from touching a very beautiful, very enchanted sapphire.

“Where did Castiel go?” he asked.

“You’re being a mother hen,” Lucifer told him, amused. “He’s right over there.” He pulled his hand away from Crowley and pointed to a booth selling musical instruments.

“Oh, bloody fuck,” muttered Crowley.

“What’s wrong with instruments?” Lucifer asked.

 _“The kind that steal your soul, you mean?”_ Crowley hissed.

Lucifer blinked. “I really don’t like London Below. Let’s fetch your eyas.”

Lucifer at his back, Crowley jogged up to Castiel. Maze was probably haggling for those terrible knives. She was a demon; she’d be fine. Well. She’d be fine provided she didn’t get into any fights and violate the peace treaty of the Floating Market, which was sacrosanct, and she was not going to be fine, was she? 

Anyway. Castiel was in imminent danger. Stupid bloody Castiel. Crowley marched up to the stall, ignoring the music and the creepy guy selling the wares, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He pulled him away from a harp that was playing itself.

“Nope,” said Crowley.

Castiel blinked at him, dazed. “That wasn’t good, was it?”

“No, it was not,” Crowley said wryly. 

“Oh, it’s quite nice, though,” Lucifer murmured, eyes on the harp.

“It’ll steal your Free Will,” Crowley told him sharply, still gripping Castiel’s collar.

“No,” said Lucifer with a smile, “Not mine. That’s rooted in desire.” He nodded to the harp. “It—belongs to me, in a way. I can feel it. It can’t hurt me. And it certainly won’t steal anyone’s Free Will. Mesmerize you for the next hundred years, maybe. But it won’t take anything but your attention.”

“Well, great,” drawled Crowley, still dragging Castiel back[2]. “Where’s Mazikeen?”

“Buying knives?” Lucifer said.

Crowley sighed explosively. “Let’s go find her before she does something stupid,” he said. Castiel squirmed in his grip, but Crowley didn’t let him go. Who knew what else a blundering Angel of the Lord could get up to in this place? He was lucky no one had plucked him and deep fried his wings!

Naturally, Mazikeen found them, rather than the other way around. Crowley had dragged Castiel deeper into the market, closely followed by Lucifer as they searched for her. Lucifer tried to wander off once or twice, but Crowley barked at him, and he sort of sheepishly fell in line. Castiel, of course, goggled at this.

But Maze came up to them herself, smug and languid. She was twirling a knife so deeply cursed that Crowley could feel it from across the distance. It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, how cursed that knife was. At her side, was the Lady Door herself.

“Found her,” Maze said lazily.

“Well done, Mazikeen!” Lucifer said lightly.

“It’s going to cost you another favor,” Door told Lucifer lightly. “What you ask.”

Lucifer cocked his head, a dangerous little smile on his face. “You _are_ a brave one! You’ve already agreed to my terms.”

Door held her head high. “You wish me to walk, unprotected, through _your_ realm. I know very little of Hell; what I do know is not promising. I want some compensation.”

“I never said you were unprotected. You’ll be with me; none dare harm one of mine. I have already given you a favor, and you already agreed. Unless you want to give me something more?” He smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile. “We are fixing _your_ mistake, after all. _You_ released Islington, my lady, not me.”

Door frowned. “I want a guarantee on my life and my freedom.”

“That I can do.” Lucifer said seriously and held out a hand. Door shook it.

Looking a little worried, she turned to Crowley. “Who’s this?” She smiled politely at Castiel. Crowley was still gripping him by the collar.

“Right,” said Crowley. He let him go. “Lady Door, this is Castiel. He’s an angel from an alternate reality. Castiel, this is the Lady Door of the House of Arch. She’s royalty, in London Below, and she’s entirely human. She’s got this neat power where she can open and close doors. The carrier spell you’re doing is to keep her safe.”

Castiel gave her a crooked smile, clearly still a little sheepish from the harp incident. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said politely.

“You as well,” Door said. “You want to go through the door in the Cage, don’t you?” she asked Lucifer.

“We have some friends waiting for us there,” Crowley told her.

“Great. This way.” She beckoned.

They followed her, winding through the mad streets of the market. Crowley waved to the Mushroom stall when he saw it, and they waved back, looking kind of bewildered.

Door led them to the Criterion Building, just behind the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, Maze at her shoulder. There were booths and booths of London Below vendors; one sold lost time, and another sold junk. There was one filled with windchimes that looked suspiciously innocent. A Velvet caught Lucifer’s eye on the way, but he only winked and moved on, heeding Crowley’s advice, thank Someone[3]. Finally, they reached the side of the building, a small stone patch between Below stalls and Above doors.

Lucifer nudged Castiel, who gave him a startled look. “You’re going to want to watch this,” he said, low and amused. “She is one of the most impressive humans I’ve ever met, besides the Detective, of course.”

He wasn’t wrong. Door was very impressive. Mazikeen gave Crowley a glance, eloquently conveying _really?_

Crowley nodded at her enthusiastically. 

They all watched avidly as Door laid a hand on the stone wall. She inhaled, slowly, and the wall just—faded. By the time she exhaled, there was an archway with a swamp on the other side.

Behind Crowley, Castiel blew out a breath.

“See?” Lucifer murmured, “Impressive.”

“Convenient,” breathed Maze. She must have been impressed too, because she let the Lady Door through the doorway first, before marching pointedly after her[4]. Crowley rolled his eyes and followed.

On the other side of the door was a great swamp that stank of sulfur and burning fires. The lights from those fires flickered distantly, and the marsh grass grew thick and tall. The sky was dark and full of stars, and as Crowley stepped out from the doorway, he sighed, because this was also London, a London that had not existed for thousands of years.

In some weird underground place like this, he could probably find his Thonis, he thought, a little sad. The thought had occurred in the past. But it would be Thonis trapped in amber, the ghost of some horrible, inverted Thonis, and not the vibrant place where he’d run laughing after Bakt down side streets, and where he’d procured whole, live animals, usually birds, the more flamboyant and feathery the better, just to see Masaharta laugh. _Crowley, I am a pickpocket! What in Ra’s name am I going to do with a whole bird? I’ve got no place to cook it!_ They’d sneak somewhere, the two of them, to butcher and roast it. Good times.

And his darling Kemsit. He didn’t like to think about her. He’d fallen fast and hard and he’d known her for maybe six months before she’d been drowned in the Nile, and posthumously decapitated, a terrible punishment in Egypt. He never even learned what she’d done. It was his first taste of real, Earthly loss. Masaharta had been young then, and Bakt had taken them both home, shocked and grief-stricken. 

The swamp that would become London stretched out in front of him, and the bodies of the Trinobanten warriors who had died here made weird lumps in the overgrown vegetation. Crowley remembered his long dead people, and he felt so terribly old.

“Well, there you are!”

Aziraphale bustled up to them, a wide smile on his face. He’d said that he’d meet them here; it was a relief to see him, that he was alright. Amenadiel was right behind him, but Crowley only had eyes for Aziraphale. Just seeing him was a comfort, frankly. Aziraphale knew what it was like to lose friends, whole cities. Aziraphale was the one constant in his life. Crowley smiled at him. “Hey,” he said.

Aziraphale’s wide smile faded in concern. Crowley must have a look on his face. “Oh, don’t do that to yourself,” he murmured at last as he got close, brushing London Below slime off Crowley’s shoulders. “You know it’ll only be a terrible echo.” Right there with him, as always. “I found what remained of Mari in the Below that time, remember? It was awful.”

That was true. Aziraphale had ended up huddled and miserable at Crowley’s little summer villa. Italy, late fifteenth century.

“Do what to yourself?” Castiel came up beside them, looking concerned.

“Places like this tend to remind one of one’s lost cities,” Aziraphale said primly. “You’ll understand in time.”

“This? Thonis looked like this?” Lucifer spluttered, all incredulity. He gaped at the creepy, silent swamp before them. Behind them was a jagged cliff face, and a great, wooden and mirrored door, flung wide. Islington’s Cage, of course.

“Thonis looked nothing like this,” Crowley growled, a little offended on behalf of his shining port city. “You won’t get it ‘til LA turns to dust, and then you have the bright idea that maybe if you go through the roads Below, you might be able to find it trapped in amber. It’s a terrible idea. Don’t do it. Why are we talking about this?”

“Don’t ask me, I think it’s dumb,” said Maze dryly.

“Thanks ever so,” Crowley told her, and she smiled like a shark.

“But that’s good advice,” said Amenadiel at last, gently. “I’ll remember it. What’s the plan?”

“Is Rags back with the Black Friars?” Crowley asked Aziraphale.

“Yes. I am still content to guard this cage.”

Lucifer nodded and turned to Amenadiel. “Brother, guard the swamp. Be sure that no London Below denizens find their way to Hell, or to Aziraphale for that matter, and that nothing from Hell leaves through the door while it’s open.”

“And do yourself a favor,” added Crowley, “This swamp is a labyrinth. Fly above it. Don’t land, or you might find yourself in the wrong era of history, yeah? Don’t get lost. There used to be a beast here; there are probably still monsters. This place is no joke. Watch yourself – she likes to show you things, Old Lady London.” This was said with some fondness. “She’s kind of a magpie. Don’t become part of her collection.”

Amenadiel nodded, angelic general to his core. “What’s the recall?” he asked. It was a poor translation of an Enochian word – the sound that the plan was completed, that he could stop guarding and return. Enochian was made to carry long distances, so this was standard among scouts and long-range guards.

Lucifer whistled three notes, very quietly. There must have been some significance there, because Amenadiel’s stance softened and his eyes warmed. Crowley had no idea what that meant. Some—weird code amongst the high-ranking angels, maybe. He glanced at Maze, who shrugged, and then at Aziraphale, who also shrugged. Very high-ranking angels only, maybe. Nest-mates only, even. Weird. 

Amenadiel stepped back. He spread his great dark wings – not quite black, not as dark as Crowley’s, but almost – and rose from a standing start, which was kind of impressive. His Seraph‘s wings were massive, and the downdraft bent the reeds of the swamp. All in all, it was a remarkable display of power, but then, he was Amenadiel the Eldest, and frankly Crowley would expect nothing less.

“Wow,” whispered Door, leaning against the rocky cliff face of the cage. She’d clearly been waiting for them to sort themselves out. Crowley had almost forgotten that she was there.

“Don’t be too impressed,” Lucifer drawled. “He’s a prat.”

Castiel frowned at him.

“Hush now,” said Aziraphale, prim. “It’s lovely to see you again, my lady.” He gave Door a little bow.

“You as well, Aziraphale,” she said, and curtsied. “Shall we get on with it?”

“Yes,” said Lucifer darkly. He eyed the great wooden and mirrored door of the cage and didn’t move.

“Crowley,” murmured Castiel, low and soft, “What is this?”

“It’s Islington’s Cage,” purred Mazikeen. “Built to hold the mad Principality of Atlantis. Once you’re inside, there is no escape, not even for Lucifer. It’s worse than his cage in Hell.” Her eyes gleamed.

“Not so,” said Aziraphale lightly, when Castiel looked alarmed. “There’s always a way out, my dear, you simply have to be a bit creative.” He patted Castiel’s arm.

Crowley chuckled nervously. He was far more creative than most demons, but that still wasn’t exactly his strength, amongst humans at least. He knocked his shoulder against Castiel’s, reluctant to go inside. Once had been enough. He hadn’t seen a way out, before. Even Lucifer hadn’t made to step inside[5].

“Seriously?” muttered Maze. “None of you are moving.” 

“Come along,” sighed Aziraphale. He reached for Crowley’s hand and tugged him. “You’ve been here before!”

“Well—yes—but that doesn’t mean I want to be here again!” Crowley spluttered, but he followed.

Through the great mirrored and wooden door was darkness. As Aziraphale passed, candles lit, two by two at the sides of the hall. Crowley hadn’t noticed them last time. They’d stayed dark. It was—kind of a creepy effect. Even Door turned at looked at him.

“That—happened. With Islington,” she said, nodding to the candles. The hair stood up on the back of Crowley’s neck.

“Yes, dear. Islington taught me to do it, whenever I visited. Candles, and light. Only an angel can light these particular candles in this manner. The Fallen can’t. I think it was a—reminder. That it had not Fallen.”

“It should have Fallen,” Door said darkly. “All those people.”

“I didn’t want it in Hell,” said Lucifer, half in shadow. “No free demon in Hell has directly killed a living human. Islington killed millions when Atlantis sank. Besides,” he added, more lightly, “The loss of their wine was just a travesty.”

Crowley groaned. “Atlantean wine,” he said wistfully. “Nothing like it. _What_ a loss.”

“It _was_ good,” Maze said, reluctant.

“Seriously?” said Castiel.

“Best in the world, Pidge,” Crowley told him cheerily. Aziraphale chuckled beside him.

“It was at that,” he murmured softly. 

He pulled Crowley gently down the long, long hall, just behind the Lady Door. It was weird, how the candles lit for Aziraphale. They hadn’t lit for Crowley, or even for Lucifer, before. It was creepy. It drew a parallel between Aziraphale and Islington that Crowley really, really didn’t like. He let his shoulder knock against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale squeezed his hand in return, glancing at him. The firelight played weird shadows on his face.

This place was bloody creepy. 

Beyond the hall, deep in the cage, there were eight iron pillars in a rough octagon. They weren’t pillars, in truth: they were stalagmites, and they extended up and up to the boundaries of even Crowley’s superb night vision. From somewhere, there was the sound of water. Crowley didn’t particularly want to investigate.

Aziraphale, at his side, looked perfectly comfortable. Well, he would be – he’d come and gone from this cage for centuries. He knew the way out. He’d been in here with Islington, voluntarily. It must have been worse, with the mad angel.

Lucifer clapped his hands, loud in the weird, watery quiet. “Okay!” he said. “Doorway. Let’s not linger, shall we?” He practically jogged down to the flint and tarnished silver door. He knocked on it, gave the Lady Door an imploring look.

“Don’t I have to sing?” asked Castiel.

“So get singing!” said Lucifer, rolling his eyes. “Crowley, Mazikeen?” He beckoned Crowley with his left hand.

Crowley sighed. He picked up Aziraphale’s hand and turned it over. “Stay safe,” he said softly.

Aziraphale stroked his cheek with his other hand. “You too, my dear,” he murmured.

Crowley kissed his palm, a human gesture, but he really, really meant it. He folded Aziraphale’s fingers over the kiss, so he held it safe.

“Fly with the wind at your back, dear,” said Aziraphale, a weird bastardization of an Irish saying and an Enochian one. Crowley liked it.

 _“Guard Well,”_ Crowley returned, Enochian, because there wasn’t really an earthly equivalent of _Enjoy serving your Function; you’re gonna do a great job!_ He let Aziraphale’s hand slip from his with one final squeeze. Looking back only once, he walked over to join Lucifer.

“Ready?” asked Door.

Lucifer snapped his fingers. Red sparks sizzled and then rose, slowly, in the air, like a leisurely firework. Castiel reached out and caught one. He took a breath.

The song he sang was Enochian, just a little ditty, really. But it was an _I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves **[6]** _kind of thing, the kind that was meant to go indefinitely. Castiel sang about the ouroboros, and mobius strips, and protection. He sang of shields and armor and soldiers protecting small, vulnerable lives. And then he sang about the ouroboros, and mobius strips, and protection. Round it went, his voice lovely as any angel’s, of course, though a little out of practice[7].

Door took a deep, deep breath. She touched the door.

From Lucifer’s left side, Crowley saw Aziraphale’s blade ignite behind them. Then the door opened, Maze caught his eye, and they swept inside.

___________

[1] And the worst part was that it would be bad ale, too. Too much sulfur. Ugh.

[2] Castiel had a great many desires. He wanted to go home. He wanted peace. He wanted Jack back, and he wanted his Dean to stop hating him, and he wanted his Sam to be safe. He wanted to live in a world without monsters, and he wanted to rest on Dean’s shoulder, while Sam and Aziraphale debated an arcane spell. He wanted Lucifer to be all that Crowley said he was, even though he knew it was folly. He wanted to be part of Angel Network for real, for his humans to run about with Linda Martin and the others, and to be safe, finally.

It made him vulnerable, wanting so many things. He thought this world was safe, and kind, but that was not true: it was only that its dangers were entirely alien. He’d heard that harp’s call as soon as they arrived, and he was very ashamed that he’d fallen for it.

[3] That was so the last thing they needed, Lucifer getting the life sucked out of him by a Velvet. Bloody Somewhere, that would both be terrible, and also terrible to explain to poor Chloe.

[4] And also checking out her ass, but it was hard to see under all those ratty clothes. Maze felt all _kinds_ of curious about this one.

[5] First time Lucifer had been curious. Aziraphale said there was a way out, but Lucifer knew that he would need Aziraphale to get out, that he couldn't find it by himself. It was a frightening thought. Wretched place.

[6] For readers who may not have heard of this, this is a song sung by school children to irritate their adult companions. It goes like this: “I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves; I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves and this is how it goes! I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves--!” It’s repeated until someone yells at you. Crowley learned this from a bunch of American schoolchildren on vacation once and thought it was brilliant.

[7] Lucifer was kind of surprised. They did have a Daydream-Castiel, apparently, according to Amenadiel. He had gone looking. This was surprising, because Lucifer had never heard of him, and nor had Crowley or even Aziraphale. Their Castiel turned out to be a lower angel, one of millions, which was why he was so hard to find. He’d been long demoted from soldier-rank for a likely stupid infarction and been assigned to the choir. He was apparently rather bad at it. This Castiel wasn’t too terrible, and even had the deliberately imperfect voice of an angel who loved and admired earth.


	14. Chapter 14

On the other side was Azazel, brass colored wings splendid in Hell’s darkness. He sat astride a great hunter-horse, its mane and tail aflame, its evil, half-skeletal head pointed at Lucifer. Great structures, office buildings made of geometric stone, blocked the meager light. Ash fell softly all around, and the tide was rising; lava dotted the narrow street in sullen, black and red glowing embers. Crowley shuddered, but he stood up straighter.

Beside Azazel, also astride a horse, was Amducias, the Viceroy of the Sixth Circle. He was a weird demon, Amducias, urbane and sophisticated – except his head was that of a unicorn. He removed his crown at the sight of them, a sign of respect from a mounted Viceroy.

“My king,” purred Azazel, who ranked higher than a Viceroy. His horse stamped its foot.

“General[1],” said Lucifer. “Amducias. Have you prepared a guard?”

“Absolutely. Well met, Castiel.” Azazel nodded to Castiel.

Castiel kept singing, but he nodded his head. He looked very confused to be addressed so politely by a Greater Demon who wasn’t Crowley.

“He’s carrying our spell,” Lucifer told Azazel. “He cannot be interrupted.”

Amducias leaned forwards on his horse. “Fascinating,” he murmured. His voice was hoarse and low. “An angel from another world powerful enough to carry a spell of that magnitude—with respect, my king, wherever did you find him?”

“My Left Hand has connections far and away cleverer than what you might expect,” Lucifer said lightly. Crowley tried not to shrink as those equine eyes met his. They were bright, flaming green and unnerving.

“I suppose the Serpent would,” said Amducias, a touch dismissive. Well. He would be. Crowley was technically a citizen of the Sixth Circle, and Amducias was like his governor, but for eternity. He’d seen Crowley in all kinds of unfortunate states over the millennia[2]. 

“He does,” Lucifer snapped, and that was the end of it. “Azazel?”

Azazel snapped a finger.

A demon on a hunter horse galloped up. The horse snorted and huffed great clouds of smoke, its mane and tail blazing. The demon atop it pulled it to a halt at Azazel’s wordless command.

Crowley looked up at the demon, splendid in her armor and on the horse. He recognized her, of course. Azazel was good.

Focalor was a good choice to guard an angel like Castiel. She had in fact spent many years saying that she was going to be redeemed. Gabriel had shouted at her, very loudly and very publicly, at the gates of the First Circle once, rather humiliatingly disabusing her of that notion. It had sent kind of a ripple through Hell; though a fine warrior, she had been disgraced for some time. But besides an understandable rage against Gabriel, she didn’t mind angels so much, and wouldn’t backstab or harm Castiel.

Behind the demon, on foot, came a group of Lesser Demons, armed with maces and knives and axes. Crowley didn’t recognize any of them, but one of them grinned at Maze and called out greetings in Lilim. Maze nodded, approving. That was alright then.

Lucifer also nodded, apparently approving as well. “And for the Lady Door?” He smiled at her. Door smiled back, and though regal as always, she did look a little worried.

“Loray!” barked Azazel. He'd clearly staggered the guards for effect. Dramatic much. 

Another demon on the back of a hunter-horse; Loray, with his streaming, filthy black hair and his green, rotting bow. “My king,” he purred.

Azazel snapped his fingers again, and signed for Loray to take the right, while he guarded the left of the Lady Door. Focalor fell in on the other side of Castiel. Door did not look particularly assured.

“Belial and the troops wait on the other side, my king,” said Amducias, gesturing to the dark stone buildings that clustered around the winding street. Embers of lava inched along their sides. “I have assigned eighteen of my best Lesser Demons to guard the Door to Earth behind us. By my decree, no demon or creature of Hell shall cross.”

“Very good,” said Lucifer. “Let’s get this over with.” He stepped up beside Amducias’s horse and they led the way down the ashy, cobbled street.

So. Crowley hadn’t been Left Hand much in actual Hell. Oh, he’d done some of the duties on Earth, which mostly consisted of advising Lucifer and telling him that no, you really did have to let humans sleep through the night and yes, they will actually be scared if you take them for joyrides in your car in heavy traffic. No, you cannot call Linda after having sex with Chloe. No, you should not even call Crowley after having sex with Chloe, what is wrong with you, you definitely already know this.

But Hell was different. Hell was—well. It was literally another plane of existence. The rules went sideways. It was disorienting.

They walked down the street, their little procession. Belial sat astride a hunter-horse at the next intersection, orange wings folded neatly on his back. Behind him, a legion stood to attention and behind that legion, stood four more. They fanned out along various side streets and they stomped their feet and saluted at the sight of Lucifer, a great noise, all in unison.

Crowley swallowed. Shit. Oh, shit. That was—that was a lot of demons. He glanced at Maze.

Maze looked regal, chin up and eyes cold. When she felt his gaze, she scowled. “What?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Crowley hissed.

“Look impressive,” she growled.

“I’m not impressive!” Crowley whisper-shrieked.

“Then fake it!” she hissed back. “Idiot.”

Fake it. Right. Fake it. He wished he had Watchdog with him, but she was with Shepherd and Chloe and Trixie in Aziraphale’s bookshop. Whatever. Crowley was good at faking it. He’d messed around in human kings’ courts, right? Right.

Clothes. He needed better clothes. Armani would not do for Hell. Hell was stuck in the fourteenth century, Crowley’s most hated century, so he went with that.

Black tunic, short sleeved to show off his fancy arm band. Snakeskin gloves, long, improvised because that wasn’t a thing, back then, but he didn’t like the idea of baring so much skin here. Cape. Bloody awful boots, bloody awful hose. Bloody fourteenth century.

Maze hissed at him. He looked at her.

“Do another one. I want to match, but don’t be dumb about it,” she said. That was—pretty high praise, actually.

Right. He did another one, dressed her as a man because long dresses were not maneuverable. He gave her something similar, but with green feathers instead of green snakeskin. They weren’t flamboyant feathers; they were coverts, small and dark and sleek.

“Okay?” he asked.

She looked at her cape, her weird dark green gloves. “It’s hideous,” she said dryly. “The peons will love it. Thanks.”

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley said, equally dry. “Hey Castiel, can I give you a makeover?”

Castiel was still singing about the ouroboros. He gave Crowley a weird look.

“Very exotic,” Crowley promised. “Lots of feathers.”

“You do look a bit drab, begging your pardon, sir,” said Focalor.

Loray, ahead of her, snorted. “Mind your own business.”

Castiel gave Focalor another weird look[3], then gestured for Crowley to do whatever.

Crowley made him a knight, chainmail and all, though without the helmet. He gave him bright blue and yellow feathers on his head instead. Castiel gave him a deadpan look. The feathers fluttered in the hot, sulfuric breeze. He kind of looked like a clown. It was excellent. 

Door giggled and Maze snickered. Lucifer turned, presumably to tell them all to shut up, and then caught sight of Castiel. He cackled.

Castiel glared, but he kept singing.

“This,” Lucifer said with a grin, a rare thing in Hell, “is going to be interesting.” He faced forward, and his own clothes changed. Peryton leather, soft as anything, images of fire burned on the sleeves and around the neck. There was a slit in the back for his wings, which he manifested and folded. He only really got out his wings for the serious stuff, so that was a clever move on his part. Chloe had taken good care of them; they were sleek and shining. She’d have to get the ash out, later.

Ugh. Gross. Crowley manifested his wings, too, but he covered them with the cape as best he could. The ash was brutal. He was going to be begging Aziraphale to take care of them later, he just knew it. Ash was itchy.

None of this had taken very long. They strolled up to meet Belial, who fell in line beside Crowley, horse and all. Azazel gave the order, and the legions parted, letting them through.

It was. A _lot_ of demons. Legions were made up of Lesser Demons, and there must have been thousands of them. They watched Crowley with their evil eyes as he passed. Beside him, on his great horse, Belial growled at one who looked particularly hostile.

At least he’d won old, stupid Belial over, Crowley thought, feeling weirdly fond. That was something.

The streets were filled with demons. It wasn’t just the legions; others had come to kneel to the king and gawk at the strange angel, and at Crowley, the new Left Hand. Their whispers grew loud en mass, even though Lilim, as a language, wasn't meant to carry. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” growled Maze when Crowley quailed. “You’re Left Hand, aren’t you? You’re really going to let a bunch of stinking demons intimidate you?”

“It is. A lot. Of stinking demons,” hissed Crowley.

“Just do what I do,” said Door lightly, regal as ever. “Remember the worst thing you lived through, and that you lived through it, and it changed you. You’re stronger, now. They don’t matter.” She smiled at him kindly.

It was the kindness that made Crowley straighten his back. Humanity at its finest[4]. 

They passed through the legions of demons. At its head, Beelzebub stood, an almost-man shaped wall of deep red flame, holding Lucifer’s hunter-horse. Crowley gulped again. Beelzebub most definitely did not like him, Left Hand or no.

“Bloody Hell,” Lucifer muttered to himself. “Lord Beelzebub, I see you have left your--” he wrinkled his nose. “Hutch.” 

“Thou hast ordered a prozzzzezzzion, my Lord,” said Beelzebub, with the voice of a million flies. “I am thy Voizzzzze.”

Lucifer gritted his teeth. “Worst decision I ever made,” he said[5] in an undertone to Crowley, who had found himself petrified. “So you are,” he added, louder. “My horse?”

Beelzebub offered the reins with flaming hands. Rolling his eyes, Lucifer took them. He wrinkled his nose at the burns on the reins and flung himself onto the horse with a grace that Crowley could only dream of.

The horse was a beautiful thing, bone burned black and flames so hot they blazed pale orange and blue. Its teeth, like all hunter-horses, were pointed. It whinnied, a strange, high-pitched sound that was not entirely Earthly. It sounded more like a screech than anything else[6].

“Let’s get this over with,” Lucifer said for the second time. “Azazel! Where is the route?”

“I entrusted it to Valac, my King, as I would be guarding the human,” Azazel said from his place beside Door. “Praefector[7]!”

Valac slipped forward from the great crowd. He appeared young and beautiful, his bluebird’s wings folded neatly on his back. His electric green eyes met Crowley’s for a single, shocking second before sliding away.

“Oh, fuck,” whispered Crowley, shrinking back. Valac. It had to be _Valac_ —a Greater Demon who could find and control snakes. Shit. Usually, he avoided other snaky demons at all costs because they all could do bad things to him. Asteroth’s diadem had totally screwed with him, and that had just been a crown worn by a human! Crowley gulped.

“Oh for—stop freaking out, he can’t touch you,” Maze hissed.

Crowley looked at her, wide-eyed and totally freaking out.

“You have the thing, you moron.” She tapped her upper arm, indicating Crowley’s armband. “You are—so _bad_ at this.”

“I’m bad at everything,” Crowley squeaked. Maze rolled her eyes.

“Whatever. Come on. We don’t walk _behind_ Lucifer.” She beckoned, and Crowley followed her, taking his place at the left side of Lucifer’s flaming horse, its black skeleton dark against its blue, fiery mane. Amducias spared him a glare, but otherwise said nothing.

Valac, having eyed Crowley and apparently found him lacking, had slipped into place at the front of the procession beside Beelzebub. At Lucifer’s approving whistle, a demonized, bastardization of Enochian, they started forward, Castiel’s droning, winding song floating around them.

Behind, a thousand demons marched, a ceremonial procession.

Valac took them to the first hole in the Sixth Circle, which was not far. They wound in between buildings and dodged lava flows until they came upon it, without ceremony. It was twisted, a funny helix-shape where it floated in the air. Within was a darkness so deep it seemed to suck in the world around it, so dark it hurt Crowley’s eyes. It felt wrong, sickeningly so. Its edges were ragged where Islington had torn them. Beside it sat a huge Hellhound, not one of the King’s Hounds, but it still shrank at the sight of Lucifer. It did not growl; instead, it slunk over to Amducias. Crowley eyed it and its big slobbery jowls.

Lucifer turned his horse around and looked down at Door.

Door had been saying something quietly to Castiel, who could not respond and looked bemused, but at Lucifer’s imperious glance she looked up and tilted her head.

“Castiel, this way,” she said, sounding like royalty herself, which of course she was. Castiel followed her obediently, still singing, and the guards followed them both. The dog growled, just once, before Amducias silenced it. 

Crowley held his unnecessary breath.

Door touched the bottom of the helix-shaped hole in the air. She tugged it down, gently, like a string on a window shade, and the darkness snuffed out as if it had never been there. She sealed it, quick and easy. Castiel, still singing, smiled at her, surprised and clearly delighted.

“Excellent,” Lucifer said, also delighted.

“Very impressive,” Amducias agreed.

“She’s an impressive human,” Lucifer said lightly. “Amducias, is the way clear?”

Amducias inclined his head, a horseback-bow. “I shall ride ahead and be sure it is so myself, my king. I’ll meet you at the great crack, Highness. Come along, Flesheater.”

The dog huffed at him, and together they rode off ahead.

“Well, that’s one demon down,” Lucifer muttered to Crowley. "How long do you think we have to keep up making a grand statement before we can ditch the rest?" Crowley was about to sputter a response, but Lucifer called, “Onwards!” 

Crowley exchanged a look with Maze under the belly of Lucifer’s horse. Twenty-six more holes to go, never mind the big one.

_________________

[1] Technically speaking, Azazel was the Lord High Constable – commander of the royal armies, and administer of martial law, when necessary. It was Hell, so it was often necessary. Lucifer called him General because he thought it sounded more modern, and the rest of Hell followed suit. 

[2] Feathers burned or torn off at the Start. Running from Hellhounds. Trying to explain accounting books to a bunch of uncaring demons. Tripping on things. Pissing off Lesser Demons. Actually filing taxes once or twice. Stupid things. Of _course_ he thought Crowley could exceed his expectations. His expectations were very low. 

[3] Since when were demons friendly? This one had actually smiled at him. This Hell was nothing like his own.

[4] Loray felt kind of sick. Ugh, sentimental humans being encouraging. Gross.

[5] Beelzebub was, quite possibly, the most convenient and most embarrassing member of Lucifer’s court. Beelzebub was not a fallen angel; Lucifer had in fact created it himself out of the firmament of the Hell, one of the very few Lesser Demons he’d made with his own hands. He’d given the demon one of his own names, too, Beelzebub, and said it could represent him at any court function he did not want to go to, which was all of them. This made Beelzebub, technically speaking, Lucifer’s Steward. It was useful because Beelzebub could represent Lucifer but could not try a coup, because it was a Lesser Demon. Unfortunately, Beelzebub had some delusions of grandeur and was a little, er, fanatical. Thus: convenient, and also embarrassing.

[6]He was reasonably young, as far as Hunter-horses went. Lucifer liked this one best. His name was Al CaPony, and Hell was the worst because nobody got the joke.

[7] Technically speaking, according to Wikipedia, Valac is a President of Hell, one of many. The author thinks that this has weird connotations, in modern terms, and has gone to find the Latin term, which may or may not be correct. MOVING ON.


	15. Chapter 15

But apparently the big one was their destination[1]. They marched deeper into Dis, the great troops behind them. Belial didn't speak at Crowley's other side, back straight and dignified on his horse. Lucky bastard. The tide had come in at one point, and the streets grew more and more lava-filled as they marched. The hunter horses didn’t seem to care about the literal actual molten rock in the street, but Crowley did, and so did Maze. Luckily it wasn’t what passed for a full-moon in Hell, so the flows had a chance to solidify. Newly forming rocks, dark and igneous, hardened in the streets, striped with glowing veins. You could walk on them, but only very carefully, and only if you were willing to dance from one spot to the next, before the thing melted. Hell was the worst.

At some point, Castiel had picked up the Lady Door, bridal style, and they both looked cross about it. Still, he wasn't wrong; lava was not good for humans, in any way, shape or form. Their guards looked kind of uncertain about the whole thing, but on they marched[2]. Eventually, Valac called them to a halt and pointed to another hole, and another growling dog stationed in front of it. Castiel didn’t put Door down, because it was right on top of a red-hot magma flow; he braved the heat and the snarling Hellhound and got her close the jagged crack, which she closed with a touch of her hand. 

Two down. Twenty-five more. They marched on.

At the third hole, Maze hissed, loud enough for Crowley to hear from the other side of Lucifer’s horse. He frowned at her.

“Alright?” he murmured.

“My mother,” she scowled, and nodded at one of Hell’s black towers.

Crowley squinted. It took him a moment to see her, the Lady of the Lilim, perched on an outcropping of one of Hell’s many office buildings. The buildings were shaped like craggy rock, all strange columns and haunting black shapes in the murky ash of Hell. They were filled with Hell Loops, and only one door out of the many led to the true interior of each building. Of course, all the doors were hidden, and distinguishing one from another was nearly impossible. Bloody nightmare, if you were a demon just trying to get to a meeting. Dis City looked like nothing so much as pitch black stalagmites made up of octagonal and hexagonal crystals, black as night. The crystals didn't flash or glow; they were dull and stonelike, but for their shape. The lava glowed in the concrete below, and the constant falling ash made the place murky and strange.

Crowley squinted. Lilith was sitting on a lintel of one of the many hidden, high-up doors on the building; her legs were dangling, heels tapping on a Hell Loop door beneath her. Her long dark hair swayed in the hot breeze of Hell, and she was hazy through the ash. She watched the procession, and she looked—thoughtful, and weirdly determined. 

“Not even invited,” Maze said with some satisfaction.

“Oh, she’ll hate that,” Crowley said, a little worried. She was definitely plotting something. Lilith was always plotting something, but now she was both irritated and plotting something. Not good. 

“Even better,” Lucifer commented blithely from atop his horse. “She’s been a thorn in my side for—well, forever.”

That didn’t really help, Crowley thought dryly.

Lilith’s eyes followed them from the third hole to the fourth, and she vanished without a word before they reached the great crack in the square and Amducias, who was waiting for them. Crowley kind of forgot about Lilith and he didn’t even really see Amducias, because when he saw the thing, his heart clenched with horror. 

Belial had undersold the crack.

It tore diagonally through the square, and it had indeed eaten a good chunk of the Lucifer-statue[3] at its center. Two rather overwhelmed Hellhounds, plus Amducias’s Flesheater stalked its edges, which were dark like the other tears. But unlike the other tears, they were expanding, with weird, cracking, popping noises, like kindling in a flame. Crowley could actually see it growing, and he swallowed, abruptly nauseous, a human response that didn’t quite make sense. It was unnatural, and it—ate at the world. It made him want to hide. And the thing was wide enough that you could actually see the other Hell through it, and the slavering imps guarding it on the other side. The Hellhounds snarled at them. 

There was a red-headed soul on the other side too, leaning casually among several imps, hip against a dark statue. She watched them approach with some interest.

On their side, Amducias removed his crown and dipped his equine head. “My king,” he said.

“Well, that’s different,” said the woman in Nightmare World in a low Scottish burr. Beside Crowley, Belial shifted uncomfortably on his horse. “A king, is it?”

Behind Crowley, Castiel choked and missed a note on his song. Lucifer actually whirled his horse around, and the guard demons shuffled uneasily. 

“If you stop the carrier spell, she’ll lose her mind,” Lucifer snapped. He turned to Door. “Alright?” he asked.

She had a hand over her heart, as if it hurt. “I’m fine. It’s fine," she gasped. "He didn’t mean it, right Castiel?”

Castiel shook his head, still singing. His eyes sought Crowley’s. He looked alarmed.

“Let him be, boss,” murmured Crowley. “Weren’t expecting to see your Hell, were you?”

Castiel shook his head. And, with his right hand, he wrote in flaming letters, the flashy kind of miracle he usually avoided.

ROWENA

“What’s a Row Eena, my Lord?” Belial asked. Crowley ignored him, thinking hard.

Rowena. Rowena. He’d talked about her. “The witch?” Crowley asked at last.

Castiel nodded, still singing.

Crowley turned back to the crack, and the woman on the other side, leaning far enough away that talking to her would be awkward. She was eyeing Amducias as one might a particularly interesting beetle specimen. Amducias was eyeing her back in much the same manner.

“Huh,” Crowley said.

“Of what does he speak, my Lord?” Belial asked Crowley, soft and curious.

“You and your questions,” growled Azazel.

“Shush,” murmured Lucifer. “Does she need rescuing, Castiel?”

“Wrong question,” Crowley said, even as Castiel was nodding. “What rank does she hold?”

“She’s clearly human,” scowled Azazel. “She holds no rank.”

“She’s in charge,” murmured Maze, right there with Crowley. “Or she’s going to be. Those are definitely minions.”

“Interesting,” said Lucifer.

“I can zzzzzzpeak to her, my king,” purred Beelzebub.

“Absolutely not. Go stand with Amducias; keep him occupied. Crowley, Castiel, Door, with me.” Lucifer dismounted, and he strolled up to the crack.

The imps on the other side flexed nervously, growling and showing their teeth. They looked big and strong, but they were just imps at the end of the day, and no match for Mazikeen, let alone Lucifer himself.

“Well, hello,” purred Lucifer, peering through the crack. “Is one of you Rowena?”

“Who’s asking?” The redhead stood up straighter. “Aren’t you pretty?”

Lucifer preened[4] a little.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” he purred. “Of Daydream World. Castiel here tells me you’re an old friend, Rowena.”

Rowena made a small noise. She stepped up to the crack, curious though also wary. “So, it’s true then! A kindlier, friendlier alternate world. How nice. Hello, dear Castiel. Why is there a crack in our Hell?” The last she asked sweetly, but even Crowley could hear the core of steel there.

“Not so kind,” sighed Lucifer. “This crack was caused by a Cataclysm in your world[5]. I hear dear old Dad got a little frustrated with your people, didn’t he? No judgement, of course.”

“That he did,” purred Rowena, clearly intrigued. “What are you doing here, then, Lucifer Morningstar?”

“Closing the cracks,” Lucifer said. “Since you’re a friend to Castiel, I can extend an invite. To this Hell.”

She was cleverer and more astute than that, though, Crowley thought, watching her. “But you don’t need it,” he said slowly. All eyes turned to him. He made himself stand straighter, despite his jellified, terrified knees. “You’re working your way up the ranks, aren’t you? You have minions. Full story goes like this: if you come here, you end up in a Hell-loop if you’re dead, or mad if you’re alive.”

“Neither of which sounds particularly appealing,” Rowena chuckled. “And who might you be?”

“Serpent of Eden,” said Crowley, keeping his chin up. “I believe in full disclosure.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Serpent of Eden indeed! You’re a clever one, I’ll give you that. I’m very dead, and I _am_ working my way up. I’d much rather this crack closed than open, so close it well. You’ll hear no protest from me or mine.”

“You’ll be Queen one day,” Lucifer murmured.

“What’s it to you?”

“It’s excellent. I propose an alliance. Your Hell and mine. Not joined; two countries. Friends[6]. What do you say?”

“You want to be _friends_ with Hell?”

“I’m already in it,” Lucifer said dryly.

“You’re very different from our Lucifer,” she murmured. “Alright. Deal. Friends.” She smiled like a very beautiful shark[7]. “Now close the crack, dear Morningstar.”

Lucifer looked down to Door. “My lady?”

Door was eyeing Rowena mistrustfully. “Step back, please.”

Rowena stepped back. “Send our boys my best, dear Castiel,” she told him. “I’m just fine, down here.”

Castiel nodded. He wrote again in fiery letters, so unusual for him: I’M SORRY.

“Whatever for? I’m going to be Queen one day.” She smiled, wide and smug. “And I’ll be taking that spell off you, too.”

He smiled through the next verse of his song. Door touched the crack, and it sealed itself, slowly, leaving rubble and a destroyed statue in its wake. The ground shook, briefly and there was a loud, squealing, jarring noise, two stones against each other. The legions braced themselves and rustled, and the horses pranced.

“That’s the circles,” murmured Lucifer, looking up and around. “They’re moving.”

“Excellent,” called Amducias from the far point of the square, and he actually sounded pleased. “It’s working.”

“Looks like,” Lucifer agreed.

Maze raised an eyebrow to Crowley. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she told Lucifer.

“Still not bad, though,” Crowley said. The circles were moving. The actual circles, moving like they were supposed to. Hell was made up of nine of them, and in good times, they spun, lazily, like records, around and through each other. The spinning kept the River Styx flowing, and it kept Hell alive and functional. Slowing or stopping the movement was devastating to all of Hell, and the creatures who lived there. Hell's movement had been in disarray since Islington had torn the holes, and it had got worse with the big crack. And they were _fixing_ it. He couldn’t stop the smile that spread on his face. Fixing something broken in Hell was almost unheard of. He beamed at Door and Castiel.

“I’ll be getting her story out of you later,” Crowley told Castiel, playful. Castiel shrugged at him.

“Me too,” Door said, though she sounded out of breath. “Sounds interesting.”

“Are you alright?” Lucifer asked her.

She nodded. “That was a big one, but I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”

Castiel offered her his arm, and she took it with a smile. He stayed at her side, and they moved onward, the great crack closed.

Valac led them inwards. They passed three more holes, which Door closed, but their real purpose didn’t seem to be to close up the Sixth Circle at all; instead, Valac led them out through the Gates of Dis, to the River Styx, the border between the Sixth Circle and the Fifth.

Amducias bowed at the gates and took his leave. It was his duty to stay within the Sixth Circle, after all. Crowley watched him go uneasily.

Hell was not shaped the way Earth was. The nine circles all intersected at varying places, rather like the Rutherford atom model, except more chaotic. The intersections were large and small and scattered throughout each circle, and their locations could change, depending on the speed at which the circles moved—or weren’t moving. Lately they had not been moving well, and Hell had suffered for it. 

Standing at the shore of the Styx, waiting for them patiently, was a familiar, viciously scarred mountain lion.

“My king,” growled Marbas, lashing its tail.

_____________

[1] Look, Crowley had seen the plans, but he’d been a bit stressed and it wasn’t like he was going to memorize them all in one go, okay.

[2] What did you even do when one charge picked up another?? Focalor certainly didn’t want to carry anyone, and Loray clearly didn’t either. Focalor looked to Azazel, who looked dignified and unperturbed as always. She wondered with the General thought of this.

The General thought that this was completely bonkers, but he did not question his king. What the hell kind of angel carried around a human like a pack mule? He didn’t ask. He’d seen enough of this place King Lucifer called Nightmare World to know that he really didn’t want to know. Who knew what this angel was capable of.

[3] Not a bad thing; the statue really had been heinous, like a bad, demon-eye view of every embarrassing Julius Caesar statue to ever exist. This was including the bad haircut and sticky-outy ears, and it had this creepy, demented smile. 

[4] Literally, he reached back and straightened one of his sharp primaries. The gesture had the same meaning, though.

[5] If she had yet to discover the others, Lucifer was not going to tell her. 

[6] Adam hadn’t liked that imp Kipling, and probably rightfully so. The boy had excellent instincts. But this was a human, one who was not even close to an imp. Lucifer could really get behind a human ruling Hell, if such a thing was possible.

[7] Friends with another Hell, Rowena thought, pleased. My, my, that could be very useful indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

Crowley shrank closer to Lucifer’s horse, swallowing. He’d had a run in with Marbas before, of course. Marbas was a healer, as well as an engineer, and had taken a look at Crowley during the whole diadem fiasco. That had been a deeply horrible experience.

Marbas, like Islington, was one of those Beings who had never bothered with the human experience enough to pick any sort of Earthly gender, be it male, female, neither, both or anything else. Marbas did not often visit Earth, so it wasn't as insulting as Islington's point-blank denial, since Islington had been on Earth so long, and had refused to experience it. There weren't pronouns at all in Lilim, because why, and the default in English was 'it' because Marbas was no more human than a strawberry plant was. Or like a mushroom, or a jellyfish. Having a sense of gender, any gender including no gender, made one human. Marbas was a demon. To call Marbas "he," "she," or "them" would be to ascribe a humanity that simply was not there.

Marbas looked like nothing so much as a huge, vicious mountain lion, and had hurt Crowley before. Crowley knew, matter of fact, that a demon like Marbas gave not two shits about human gender, unless it could be used to hurt somebody. 

“Marbas,” Lucifer was saying, ignoring Crowley’s vague cowering. He held up a hand, and the great train and escorts halted behind him. “What news of the circles?”

Marbas lashed its tail again. “They gave a great lurch forward. We had put in some scaffolds; Vapula was garroted when they moved. She was pulling the Third Circle, which had stopped moving entirely.” It paused. “I fixed her. She’s fine now.”

“Good to hear,” Lucifer murmured. “Anything else to report?”

“You’re closing the holes,” said Marbas, great leonine eyes fixed on Lucifer.

“Yes.”

“Excellent, my Lord, thank you. I’ll prepare my people. Things will run far smoother, after that. There is one in the Fifth Circle that has been growing; it tears every time the Eighth Circle rotates and aggravates the holes in the Seventh Circle. The Dust from the tear clogs the gears in all three Circles; frankly, it has been a nightmare. Please, my king, if you close no others today, please close that one.”

“Lucky for you, our next destination is the Fifth Circle, isn’t that right, Valac?”

Valac bowed low. “Yes, my king.”

“Let’s see to this hole first. Marbas, escort us.”

“It will be my pleasure, my king.” Marbas reared back on those strong, leonine hind legs and whistled.

The weird thing about Heaven and Hell was that it was all very musical. Crowley had perfect pitch, of course, like all angels, Fallen or otherwise. But that was pretty average—the truly talented ones, like Marbas, could sing the world to a halt, could engineer time and space to ripple like water disturbed by a stone. Marbas didn’t need hands to fix the gears of Hell. It needed its voice.

The River Styx, deep and dark before them, did not part, as the Red Sea had once parted for Moses. Instead it narrowed, and became shallower, little more than a trickle of water over muddy, mucky ground interspersed by stones. The land beyond the river was not flat; it twisted upwards at a right angle, the disk of the Fifth Circle rising above them like Saturn’s rings. 

Marbas fell back onto all fours and bowed. “My king.” 

“Lead the way,” Lucifer said mildly.

Valac huffed and puffed, a growl rising in the back of his throat, but he let Marbas through. Marbas outranked him, after all; Marbas was a Viceroy, and sat on the Dark Council[1]. It swayed its tail, like a tomcat showing off, though of course it had no actual balls, being a demon. Still, this was clearly a move engineered to piss off Valac even more, and it clearly worked, by the way Valac gritted his teeth. Marbas picked up a jaunty trot, splashing only twice through the diminished River Styx.

“Oh, gross,” Crowley muttered to himself. He knew what was in that mud. He wished he didn’t know, but he definitely knew.

“We haven’t even reached the Eighth Circle yet,” Maze muttered, amused. 

Crowley had only been in the Eighth Circle a handful of times, truth be told, because why would he ever go there. The Eighth Circle was disgusting.

“Nnnnnot looking forward to it,” Crowley told her.

“Amateur,” Maze replied, and hopped nimbly forward to keep up with Lucifer’s horse. Crowley scrambled to follow.

He squelched through the mud of the Styx. Flesh eating worms and bits of ravaged old souls squirmed in the muck under his feet, and he clambered his way to the other shore. Ugh. Styx. He hopped a little, shaking the mud off his boots and looked back to check on Castiel.

Castiel had scooped up Door and was carrying her, bridal-style, through the mud. Folcalor sat on horseback at their side, looking brave and stupid, like she took her guarding duties a little too seriously. Her horse looked extremely unhappy at the state of its hooves as it slogged along through the muck of the Styx. Loray and Azazel, of course, were stone faced and dignified. A horde of Lesser Demon guards tumbled and squelched after them.

Funny thing about the circles of Hell – once they reached the Fifth Circle on the other side, it looked flat and swampy. Behind them, the Sixth Circle rose at a right angle instead. The geometry of Hell was mind boggling, really, especially with the troops marching behind them, changing circles. It was like a bloody Escher painting. Marbas was a bastard, and Crowley’s hatred was extremely personal, but the fact that it understood and repaired this stuff when it was broken was kind of incredible.

Upon the shores of the Fifth Circle, waiting for them, stood the Viceroy of the Fifth Circle, Ipos, and an entourage of about ten Lesser Demons. She was dark skinned, and her bright red wings folded neatly on her back, and you would think she was perfectly angelic, except that her feet were webbed. Hell did funny things, sometimes. Crowley himself had never really got his eyes to cooperate.

“Well met, my King,” she said. “Welcome to the Fifth Circle.” She curtsied, though she wore no skirts, instead, she wore tanned and burned leather finery, similar to Lucifer’s. Skirts were very impractical in Hell: they tended to drag in the muck, or get stuck on things, or leave you vulnerable in unpleasant places, especially if you had picked a gender. Most demons laughed at skirts. 

“Well met, Viceroy,” Lucifer said. Head high, he added, “Come. Join our party and tell me of the Fifth Circle.” He gestured regally.

Ipos curtsied again, and then slipped in beside Crowley, her demons joining their party. She gave him a cold, assessing look, and then proceeded to ignore him in favor of telling Lucifer about the trouble in the bogs. Crowley eyed her uneasily. It was—weird. Weird being assessed by _Viceroys,_ weird standing so close to one, to a demon in charge of a whole Circle in Hell. Crowley didn’t know very much about Ipos. He didn’t spend much time in the Fifth Circle. 

Listening to her drone on, he learned that the bogs and the monsters in them were, somehow, both terrifying and terrifyingly boring at the same time. Lucifer looked like he wanted to fall asleep the moment Ipos started talking, so at least Crowley wasn’t alone in this.

Marbas led them onward, without pause or hesitation.

The Fifth Circle was mostly a swamp. Low hanging fog swept the place. It reached about to Crowley’s calves, and swirled as he walked. Not pleasant. Who knew what nasty, biting animal could be hiding in there. From the mists rose doors leading to various Hell Loops, but otherwise all was still, besides Ipos’s complaints about bog monsters. He knew they were there; great creatures that might be mistaken for serpents, hiding in sinkholes, twinkling lights on the tips of their long, catfish-like mustaches. Their breath was noxious and could paralyze an unwary demon. They had ridged backs and far too many teeth to be any sort of snake, anything Crowley might call kin. The whole place stank of sulfur, too, and the knowledge of what could be in the fog was unsettling. There were lights in the distance, after all, but mostly they looked like fires flickering here and there, nibbling the tips of the long grasses.

The smoke from those fires could knock a Lesser Demon flat and could give Crowley the mother of all migraines[2]. He glanced at Maze, who of course needed no warning. She’d pulled her cape over her nose, looking irritated. Crowley stopped breathing, though that probably wouldn’t help. The stuff clung to the skin like none other. He hated Hell. He hated Hell so much, but then, so did everybody.

Ipos, of course, didn’t seem bothered.

The horses splashed through the marsh. Marbas led them through the center of it, the muckiest part, probably as some sort of statement Crowley didn’t care about. Behind them, legions of Lesser Demons marched. Crowley was certain that some of them were falling on their faces because of the smoke. The Fifth Circle was bloody terrible.

Finally, he could see the hole. It was in the shape of a lightning bolt, but not the stylized stuff—like a real lightning bolt, jagged fingers snaking out in all directions. Darkness throbbed within, black so deep it hurt to look at. This was a bad one, he realized, because it was growing. It made him queasy, just as the great crack had, its tendrils snaking slowly through the fabric of reality and snapping it apart. Marbas had it right.

The great lion bounded up to it and snapped heavy jaws at the snarling Hellhound guarding the hole. Marbas circled it, keeping distance from the dog and at last regarding them all from this far side of the tear, tail twitching. “Please, I beg you, it grows by the moment,” Marbas told Lucifer in its low purr. “If no other, fix this one, my Lord.” Marbas bowed its leonine head.

“I had not realized that it was growing so quickly,” Ipos said, and to her credit she did sound worried. “My scouts did not seem particularly concerned.”

“Probably because they’re lying,” Maze hissed, low.

Lucifer looked at Maze, and so did Crowley.

“Don’t be stupid; she beats the ones who give her bad news,” snapped Maze.

“Well, yes,” said Lucifer[3]. “But no harder than usual? Ipos?”

Ipos scowled. “There is little good news to be found, my king. The rumors whisper of _our Father_ on the other side of those holes.” This she spat with fury.

“Tell me,” Lucifer said sharply.

“Only whispers,” Ipos said, dark. “Only that he is on the move, my king.”

“Of course, they’re only _whispers_ ; you keep beating the messenger!” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Ipos, no wonder you don’t get anything done here. Stop _beating_ everyone and maybe they’ll give you a straight answer!”

Maze snorted.

“What,” growled Lucifer.

Maze chuckled. “Nothing. Just, you know.”

Crowley caught on. It wasn’t like Lucifer didn’t _also_ beat up his bearers of bad news, if they were demons. He snickered. Lucifer scowled at him.

“Crowley,” he growled.

“Just—let’s close the holes, yeah? My king?” This he added because Ipos was giving the old hairy eyeball.

Lucifer looked from him to Maze and then huffed. He gestured. The dog stood down, falling to its belly. Castiel had picked Door up again, because of the muck. That was very chivalrous of him, Crowley thought wryly. Good thing he’d dressed him as a knight. It was fitting, and the feathers on his head were still _great_. They swayed with each of Castiel's steps. There were no flaming grasses, between here and there, but Crowley still walked with them to the hole, feeling a little protective[4]. Marbas smiled at him, a great mouth with great teeth as he approached.

“I see your leg has healed, my lord,” said Marbas softly when Crowley got close. Beside him, Castiel went rigid. He shot a look to Crowley. 

“Yep,” said Crowley. He clenched a fist and did not flinch. From one Viceroy to the next: bloody Manchester. He told himself that Maze had said that no one could touch him now that he had the armband. He told himself that Maze was never afraid, and anyway showing fear down here was the mother of all bad ideas. 

“Excellent. That means you are strong, and worthy. I am pleased to see your advancement. I suspected, when our king called me to see to you, that your promotion was imminent. You will make a splendid Left Hand.” The lion bowed again.

Weird.

“Uh. Thanks,” said Crowley, a little freaked out. This stank of weird Hell politics. He caught Castiel’s worried eyes again and shrugged.

“Go on,” Crowley told him, a little shaky. Castiel narrowed his eyes, but he brought Door to the hole. Door reached out to touch one of the crackling, lightning-like fingers with her own fingers. There was no fanfare, but ever so slowly, the edges of the crack sealed themselves. Marbas’ tail lashed excitedly, and at the end the great lion roared.

Castiel and Door jumped, and the ground shuddered. Under their feet, the Fifth Circle groaned into motion.

Crowley staggered a little as everything lurched forward. Some of the fog seemed to clear at his feet, and the air got—warmer, just a little.

“Excellent!” called Lucifer, and behind them, the legions of demons cheered and hooted.

Marbas bounded up to Lucifer. “I must depart, my Lord. As you close the minor holes now, things will start moving faster. I have a great deal of work to do. Thank you!” The lion bowed its great scarred head. “Viceroy Ipos,” Marbas added. She inclined her head and said nothing. 

“Work well and swiftly, Marbas, as always. Give me news of the Seventh Circle, when you have it. You’re dismissed,” said Lucifer.

Marbas bowed again and raced off into the mists of the swamp.

The Seventh Circle? What was up with the Seventh Circle? Crowley found himself meeting Belial’s eyes, for some unfathomable reason. Belial blinked at him and clearly had no idea what Crowley was thinking about. Crowley rolled his eyes and slunk back to Lucifer’s side.

“Valac,” said Lucifer. “Have you re-drawn the route?”

“Er,” said Valac.

“Idiot,” muttered Maze. Ipos sniffed like an offended lady.

“I have, my king,” said Azazel. “Or rather, an approximation.” He urged his horse closer to Lucifer’s and handed him a slightly burnt piece of parchment. “The Fifth is not my usual circle, so I do not know its terrain as well as, say, the Sixth or Ninth Circles.”

Ipos sniffed again, affronted. “Let me see,” she said stiffly. Lucifer passed her the parchment.

So that wasn’t encouraging. Crowley scowled down at his feet—muddy and disgusting, ugh-- while she muttered and corrected. He was kind of—over this. He’d definitely lost count of the holes, and by the way Belial was frowning, he had also lost count.

He could leave. He was a volunteer. He could totally leave. But he had people he loved up top; he had humans and cities now and in the future that he wanted to love, and this affected them. His status in Hell affected them, too, because frankly the ability to order someone like Belial around might mean the ability to protect parts of earth later, should that apocalypse part deux ever come.

So he took a breath and marched back to Lucifer’s side, through the mucky marsh. When Ipos handed Valac the parchment, Lucifer whistled, all royal grace, and they started forward. Valac led the way, through the marsh.

_______________________________________

[1] Besides the Turning, its dominion also included healing, lost things and secrets. It was a talented old bastard, Marbas.

[2] Which he knew from at least one very, very unpleasant experience running through here, when he was young and newly Fallen. There had been all kinds of monsters lurking in Hell, in those days. 

[3] It was Hell after all. He had _met_ Ipos.

[4] And frankly wanting to get away from Ipos.


	17. Chapter 17

By the time they’d tramped through the Fifth Circle, at least half of the legion behind them had dropped flat, laid low by the smoke of the rushes. Since this was Hell, no one really cared, and they all just sort of left the unconscious demons there, to wake later—or to leave for the bog monsters, whatever. Crowley had miracled Maze one of those gas mask things from the first world war, and she’d snarled at him, but she’d taken it. He’d started wearing one himself, an infernal headache pounding at his temples. Bloody Fifth Circle.

He had definitely lost track of the holes. From time to time he would catch Belial counting on his fingers from the back of his horse, as if he were trying to figure out how many holes were left. He kind of wanted to tell Belial not to bother, but Crowley got a twisted, demonic amusement out of watching Belial be a moron, so he let it lie.

At his right side, Lucifer looked incredibly bored on his horse. Beelzebub, walking in front of Crowley, was chattering away about some sort of court function, and Lucifer did actually seem to be listening – must have been important then – but he looked like he would rather be literally anywhere else[1]. Crowley mostly tuned him out.

Ipos had drifted back, apparently to speak to Azazel. She wondered, loudly, where Lilith was, and everyone ignored her, though Maze smirked, extremely self-satisfied. Azazel, like Lucifer, also looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else, but he spoke to her regardless[2]. Crowley didn’t much like having her behind him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

The thing about the Fifth Circle was that there were souls wandering around outside their loops, here. This was true of other circles as well, but it was particularly obvious on the flat, ghostly swamp. Mostly they fled from the Devil, and rightly so, because Lucifer, and frankly even Crowley, had no patience for these souls[3]. The Wrathful and the Sullen skulked on the edges of things. Crowley glared at them when he saw them, especially the Sullen, humans who didn’t appreciate Earth when they lived. Bastards. 

They ran off, mostly. It was weirdly satisfying. Crowley glanced back at Castiel and Door.

Castiel’s ditty wound around the procession. It was definitely annoying, and it was definitely going to get stuck in Crowley’s head. His eyes were tired, and though he sounded strong he also looked—well—bored. Door stuck close to his side. Her face was composed. She was holding it together for now, but the poor thing was definitely going to freak out once she got back to Earth. She had Richard, at least. There weren’t many good psychiatrists in London Below though. Maybe Crowley could get her a demon bodyguard? Would that make her feel better?

“My lord,” hissed Belial from his side.

“Yeah?” Crowley turned to him. He took off his mask because it was irritating.

Belial fidgeted. “When is the next hole, my lord?”

“Ask Valac,” said Crowley. “Or Azazel. I have no idea.”

Beliel blinked at him, surprised. “Only,” he said tentatively. Was that trust on his face? Weird. “I didn’t think it would take so long.” He looked at Crowley uncertainly, like he worried that Crowley would strike him.

This was interesting.

“Got big plans?” Crowley asked him wryly.

Belial fidgeted.

“You have a _date_ ,” blurted Crowley, delighted. “You do, don’t you, you big lug!” Did they even date in Hell? That was not a thing that seemed particularly Hellish, but who knew? Crowley didn't spend much time down here. 

Belial scowled. “It isn’t what you think,” he said sullenly. “The eels of the river Styx get cold without my fire[4]. I re-light it for them every day.”

“You—keep the eels warm,” Crowley echoed, stunned. “Why?”

Belial looked away. He looked back at Crowley. He clenched his horse’s reins.

“They helped me when I Fell,” he said shortly.

Crowley winced. Oof. Taboo. Demons didn’t talk about the Fall. How on earth had he landed this much trust from Belial?

“When?” he asked.

Belial looked at him.

“When’s your appointment?” Crowley clarified.

Belial blinked. He gave Crowley a time in Lilim, one that had to do with the turning of the Ninth Circle. He had about an hour to get there, give or take.

“Okay. I’ll send you off on a mission, then.”

Belial looked panicked and betrayed.

Crowley sighed. “A mission to the Styx,” he clarified. “To light a little fire under water? In a place of your choosing?”

Belial still looked panicked.

“Oh for—I’m going to send you on a mission to do whatever it is you do with the eels,” Crowley hissed. “I’m covering for you. Okay?”

Belial’s face cleared and his eyes widened, stunned. “My lord,” he breathed.

“Yeah?”

Belial fidgeted. “You’re my favorite master,” he blurted.

Well. Crap. “Um. Thanks?” Belial’s eyes were huge. This was definitely awkward. “So. Mission. I’m sending you on a super top-secret mission.”

Belial looked confused.

“The mission. To help the eels? Super top secret?” Direct orders only for Belial, apparently.

Belial sucked in a breath, finally understanding. “Yes, my lord,” he said.

“Well, go on. Go do your thing.” He waved a hand in a _shoo_ gesture.

Belial wheeled his horse around and kicked it into a canter; they raced away from the procession and into the misty bog.

“Crowley?” asked Lucifer, atop his horse. Beelzebub scowled at its flaming feet but did not interrupt Lucifer.

“Secret mission,” said Crowley, “Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re sending him to tend to his eels, aren’t you?” Lucifer drawled.

Crowley blinked.

“You are. The worst demon,” Lucifer added, chuckling.

“How many people know about the eels?” spluttered Crowley.

“Most of us,” drawled Maze through her gas mask, regarding Crowley from under Lucifer’s horse’s belly.

“The inner zzzzircle knowzzzzz about Belial’zzzz zzztrange….. predilectionzzzzz,” sniffed Beelzebub, giving Crowley a disapproving glare. “Kindnezzzz is not apprezzzzzziated in thizzzzz kingdom.” The glare sharpened into rage.

“On the contrary,” Lucifer said lightly. “Crowley can do as he likes.”

Beelzebub huffed. “Highly irregular. My Lord, he betrayed uzzzzz!”

“No, Beel,” crooned Lucifer, patronizing, “He betrayed _you_. I was never keen on the apocalypse; that was all you and Belial[5]. He has been perfectly loyal to me, even when he did not need to be. And I won’t hear any more about it.” He looked back down at Crowley. “You do as you like with Belial,” he said, a little softer. “I thought you’d be a good fit, frankly[6].”

“He tried to set me on fire, once,” Crowley told Lucifer dryly. Belial was incredibly high ranking. Technically speaking he was a Grand Chancellor, responsible for enrolling and registering royal decrees. Since Lucifer never really made decrees, he could act as Crowley’s assistant. Before Crowley’s promotion, Belial had seemed frightfully strong.

“He tries to set everyone on fire,” Maze drawled. “He has a lot of feelings. He’s an idiot.”

Crowley shrugged, feeling kind of fond of old stupid Belial. Go figure.

“Feelingzzzzz,” sneered Beelzebub. Even the flickering flames looked sulky. 

“Now, now,” Lucifer told him. “Valac!” he added. “Where is our next destination?”

Crowley was so glad he asked.

“We are headed to the Tower, my lord,” said Valac, ahead of them. “We shall light the Beacon, to let all of Hell know of our strength and success! We have finished the Fifth Circle. Then we finish the Sixth Circle, then to the Seventh, then to the Eighth.”

The Beacon? The Beacons hadn’t been lit since the old days, really. Oh, a quashed rebellion here and there might spur them to light one, but in the old days, the days when Greater Demons still fought the monsters of Hell, Lucifer would build great towers in each circle. He burnt beacons at the top when he claimed the land, to signify that they had conquered the circle, that the monsters were subdued. It was a powerful message of strength to send to the rest of Hell. Politically clever, but also irritating to Crowley, personally.

Politics. Ugh.

“Excellent!” said Ipos, behind Crowley. He was getting the sense that she was the kind of demon who loved politics. “That is a great honor, my king, how thrilling! We shall have a feast in my palace to honor the lighting!”

“I shan’t be there,” Lucifer said casually. “More holes to close, you know how it is.”

Ipos made a stifled insulted sound. Crowley looked back and caught Azazel rolling his pale yellow eyes[7].

Maze lifted her gas mask to shout, “Hey runt! How many holes left?”

“Rude,” Crowley hissed at her, but playfully.

“None in the Fifth,” Valac returned, sniffing and offended, “There are twelve left, scattered.”

Not bad, Crowley thought, surprised. They’d done most of them. He looked backwards.

Behind him, behind Lucifer and Maze, marched Castiel and Door, and their various guards. Ipos was still bothering Azazel and Focalor, the other guard, was speaking quietly with Door. Castiel still sang his ditty. He looked very bored. He probably hadn’t heard; they were too far back.

“Hey!” Crowley called back to them. “We’re done with the Fifth Circle! Twelve more holes to go!”

Castiel perked up a little. He added a little angelic trill to his next note.

“ _Twelve_ more?” Door asked, shocked. “How many were there?”

“Twenty-seven, m’lady,” Focalor said.

“Islington has been down here a long, long time,” Door murmured. “It’s been busy.”

“Islington was full of malice,” said Azazel, gravely. He seemed pleased to speak to someone who was not Ipos. “It wanted nothing more than to topple the order of things. I wish I had known it was here.” The last was a growl.

Crowley took a breath and a risk: he slipped back in the parade and asked the question burning in his throat. “Did you know Islington? Azazel?”

Azazel turned his creepy, pale yellow eyes to Crowley. He seemed to deliberate a moment, before answering[8]. “Yes. We dueled once in Atlantis. I had come to Earth to steal some wine; it was remarkable. Islington did not attempt to conceal the battle. It also did not seem to care when I threatened the humans. I thought this odd, especially for a Principality. It banished me back here.”

“You lost? To a Principality? _You_?” blurted Crowley before he could think better of it. Ipos tittered, shocked at his apparent insult.

Azazel chuckled darkly. “I may have been inebriated.”

“You were _drunk_?” blurted Door.

“It was quite novel,” said Azazel. “Entirely different from what substances we have in Hell. I do regret that I lost. If I had known Islington was here, in my home, I would not have lost a second time, and perhaps we could have seen to these holes sooner.”

Civil. Azazel was civil, when not having a nervous breakdown, and surprisingly good humored. That was. So weird. Crowley looked to Castiel. Castiel sang, but he also looked completely baffled by this. Crowley shrugged at him, and he huffed a little laugh on his next note. He seemed alright.

“But look,” Azazel said. “It seems we’re coming upon the Tower of Anger.”

Ipos tittered again. “Mazikeen! Will you light the beacon?”

Crowley had deliberately fallen back behind Lucifer and his horse to talk to everyone. Maze, resolutely at Lucifer’s side, pulled off her mask. She glared at Ipos.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m lighting it.”

Ipos made an affronted noise. Crowley wondered if irritating Ipos was just what people did in Hell. He’d never particularly noticed before because he’d always kept his distance. Was this a thing[9]?

Crowley frowned. “I’m missing something,” he told Azazel.

“You have spent too long on Earth,” Azazel scoffed. “When there are beacons to be lit, the Left or Right Hand lights them. Mazikeen had a protocol with Asteroth, though none of us were privy to it.”

“Yeah, Crowley doesn’t care about that sort of thing, meathead,” said Maze. “Right Crowley?”

“I’ll let you know when I care,” Crowley called back. Did she seriously call Azazel meathead? There was definitely a story there, and Crowley definitely wanted it. Of course they had history, he thought. They were both members of Lucifer's court, and had been since time immemorial. That was the thing about Hell: nobody ever died. You just had to _deal_ with people. Everyone here had history, really, except for Crowley, Door and Castiel. 

“Crowley cares about his people, and his people only, as it should be,” Lucifer was saying lightly from the back of his horse.

“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Crowley told Door, who chuckled.

“He’s right, you know, your people should be the most important,” she said warmly.

Castiel snapped a finger to get his attention and then nodded, very definitively, clearly agreeing.

“Alright, alright, I don’t need a bloody lecture,” Crowley grumbled. He felt Ipos’ eyes on him and decided to ignore them.

“What interesting company you keep, my lord,” murmured Azazel, his pale yellow eyes sharp and calculating. “Your temperament is entirely different from Asteroth.”

Feeling bold, Crowley said, “Less pretentious?”

Azazel chuckled. “I did hate the bastard,” he said[10]. “But yes. More informal. More—humor. Perhaps our king is correct in his assessment: maybe we need more of Earth in Hell.” Ipos gasped, clearly shocked. Everyone ignored her.

“Why, Azazel, I never thought I’d see the day,” Lucifer called.

“My king, with all due respect, sometimes your orders are rather. Opaque.”

“He means insane,” hissed Maze. “And he’s right.”

“Mazikeen!” huffed Lucifer over Beelzebub’s insulted buzzing.

“I most certainly do not!” spluttered Azazel. “I mean difficult to understand! It is my pleasure to follow orders of course, always.”

“Of course,” Crowley drawled, looking at Lucifer’s swaying back. Maze snickered.

“I’m demoting you,” Lucifer said casually.

“Nah,” Crowley responded, much to the apparent shock of everyone around him except Maze and maybe Door. Even Castiel looked alarmed. 

“Gentleman of the Stool[11],” Lucifer threatened.

“Isn’t that supposed to be an honor? Anyway, nobody shits in Hell,” Crowley added.

“The Eighth Circle does,” Lucifer said, amused.

“Ugh. Not looking forward to that,” Crowley said.

“Look smart, m’lord Crowley,” purred Loray. “We’re coming to the Tower.”

_____________

[1] LA, a pool, Chloe in a bikini curled up in his lap. A good scotch. A _sunset,_ and a warm breeze that didn’t have the bite of sulfur that Hell did…. He sighed. Beelzebub was talking about the Dark Council’s latest drama. This was actually important for him to know so he could play them off each other, as Beelzebub well knew. Dammit. 

[2] He wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about how the Fifth Circle was the only way to get to the Fourth Circle, and how trade routes had to be maintained, especially now, with the holes. Ipos was a spoilt brat, but she was a vicious creature, and her people maintained the bogs, and their monsters. That was important. He would quite like to gouge out her eyes again, though. 

[3] Though Maze kind of liked them. She thought they were funny.

[4] Because Belial didn’t see any reason why fire shouldn’t burn underwater.

[5] Belial planned most of it, under Beelzebub’s orders. Lucifer had recommended Crowley to receive the antichrist and give him to the humans. Between Belial and Crowley, it was no wonder it went kaput.

[6] Lucifer liked Belial. He was dumb as a brick but incredibly loyal. Lucifer had known about the eel thing from time immemorial. In the old days, in the cold days, it was beneficial to have the eels loyal to Belial, and Belial loyal to him. They made decent spies, those eels. They knew their monsters. Now—Crowley would be kind to Belial, and Belial would grow loyal to Crowley. Belial was loyal to anyone who was kind to him. Kindness was rare in Hell, so this trait wasn’t much of a problem, as it could be on Earth.

[7] Maybe she would attempt another rebellion if Lucifer insulted her enough? Too much to hope for. She’d learned her lesson when Lucifer had unseated Orobas, all those years ago. Pity.

[8] Crawly was an upstart. Azazel did not want the position of Left Hand – he liked his armies – but the little serpent had been irritating since the dawn of Time. However—Azazel remembered kindness. It was difficult not to, when you spent most of your time in Hell. Crawly had not harmed him when he had been—indisposed—and curled into Lucifer’s shoulder, the safest place Azazel knew. Crawly had not mocked him either. This was strange, so he decided to answer the question. Maybe there was more to the serpent than met the eye. 

[9] Irritating Ipos was nearly second nature. She was prim, she was proper, she was vicious, and Lucifer couldn’t stand her. But she was a better alternative to Orobas, the last Viceroy of the Fifth Circle, who had rebelled millennia ago and now sat in a dungeon in the Ninth Circle, missing several of his limbs. And she did do a decent job keeping the bog monsters at bay. One of the worst things about Hell was that you were just. Stuck with people. Forever.

[10] Everybody hates everybody in Hell so this should not be taken at face value. Azazel and Asteroth had a complicated relationship of veiled insults and deadly missions and deadlier trophies from those missions. Both prim and proper, you’d never know the simmering rage and sometimes strange, twisted respect between them by observing them together.

[11] The Gentleman of the Stool is a real thing that really existed on Earth. This servant’s job was to tend to the king’s toilette and all that that implies. Apparently, this man was privy to the king’s secrets, since he was with the king when he was at his most vulnerable (IE, taking a shit).


	18. Chapter 18

Crowley faced forward.

The Tower of Anger loomed above them like that tower in Mordor—it was called something--whatever— obsidian that shone like glass all the way to the top. As they approached, he saw two Lesser Demons guarding the front gate. Lucifer called for a halt, and Crowley stepped up to stand at the shoulder of that creepy horse of his.

Lucifer looked down to his right. “Mazikeen?” he drawled.

Maze puffed up. She glanced at Crowley before tossing her gas mask into the air. He snapped so it disappeared, and apparently that kind of unity between Left and Right Hand was unusual because everyone behind them murmured and muttered. Standing straight and proud, Maze sauntered over to the guards before the Tower. Ipos broke free, and she followed her at a casual walk, after bowing once to Lucifer. She must have some weird Viceroy part to play, Crowley thought. 

He watched them go. Crowley had always kind of been confused about the Tower. It was the tallest point in the Fifth Circle, and that was fine, and it had one of those famed Beacons at the top; one that could be seen from the watchtowers of the other circles, thus making a great statement of Lucifer’s prowess as king blah blah. In this case, Circles Five, Six, Seven and Eight would light their beacons when the holes were closed and everyone would, presumably, party, or whatever the equivalent was in Hell; Crowley didn’t intend to stick around to find out. It would be good for Lucifer’s position as king, though, especially since he was so often absent these days.

The thing was. The thing was. Why was it the Tower of Anger? There were no angry people inside it, as far as Crowley knew. It was just a beacon. It didn’t make you angry. It didn’t really do anything, except burn at the top. Did it make humans angry? Surreptitiously, he looked over his shoulder at Door, who was leaning lightly against Castiel. He looked touched and protective at the gesture, but she didn’t look angry.

So why was it the Tower of Anger? Unless it was just a Fifth Circle thing. Wrath and anger and whatnot.

This was the sort of thing that he and Aziraphale would debate drunkenly. Crowley sighed. He was glad Aziraphale wasn’t here, but he would have much rather been in London with him, even if it was in that creepy Cage.

Ipos spoke with the guards, short and sharp. Crowley watched, pondering this dilemma, as she stood aside. Maze punched one and then drop kicked another. Lesser Demons. Who even knew. She disappeared inside the Tower, and Ipos stood by the door, regal. Guarding?

“What’s the plan, boss?” Crowley asked, at last.

“Maze will light the beacon,” Lucifer replied, sounding bored. “And then we’ll all cross back over to the Sixth Circle and get rid of Ipos.”

“Not complaining, but why is the beacon is a Maze thing?” Crowley asked.

Lucifer slid his dark eyes down to Crowley, amused. “You need to possess a certain amount of rage to get to the top of the Tower.”

“That’s why it’s called the Tower of Anger!” Crowley said, snapping his fingers.

Lucifer chuckled. “Yes. You fundamentally lack rage.”

“I have plenty of rage!” Crowley spluttered, insulted.

“Liar,” said Lucifer, but it was fond. “That’s alright. You are useful in other ways[1], don’t fret.”

Crowley thought about this. “Why don’t you light it?” he asked. Lucifer had plenty of rage. 

Lucifer scowled. He looked away. “I built it,” he said into his horse’s fiery mane. “The hellfire burns too hot if I do it; the tower will burn itself down.”

“Still?” Crowley asked softly.

“Still.”

Wow. Crowley looked Lucifer up and down. You’d never know it, really.

Crowley had burnt out most of his rage at Him Above[2] many years ago. An Earthly post, a warm soft angel as an Adversary, and the Cosmic War became kind of a joke. There was some lingering resentment, and also some lingering hope if he was being perfectly honest, but that was long ago and far away. He’d stood beside Lucifer, all those years ago. He’d choose Earth in a heartbeat, but these days, knowing Lucifer as he did, he didn’t regret his first choice. He was a demon. It wasn’t so bad, when you got used to it. Who needed God anyway?

Now that he was looking for it, he could see the Cosmic War in the set of Lucifer’s shoulders, in the stiffness of his folded wings. He gripped his reins, tight tight tight. Still angry, then, Crowley marveled.

Also, he was an idiot. “Why?” he asked[3].

Lucifer glared at him. “Are you serious?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s been eons, boss. It is what it is, isn’t it? We were kicked out of Heaven. I don’t want to go back. I mean. Him Above liked to pretend He was our Father, but then He gave us a bunch of orders and all these rules that made no sense. What was up with that? Control freak, much? Not worth being angry over, if you ask me[4].”

Lucifer stared at him, embers burning in his eyes. “He continues to manipulate my life,” he snarled, low and soft.

“You have no way of knowing that,” Crowley said, foolishly.

“Amenadiel has been dragging me back to Hell on His orders,” Lucifer spat, “for _centuries_ , Crowley.”

Yeesh. “So, it really is personal,” Crowley murmured. “I never knew.”

Lucifer blew out a breath and got himself back under control, mostly by way of gaping at Crowley. “You _never knew?_ How did you miss that? That’s literally—all of Hell knows that, Crowley!”

“I was on Earth,” Crowley drawled.

“You were an idiot,” Lucifer said, incredulous. “Why did you think we sent you on all those bizarre missions?”

“I don’t know. I figured Corporate was an idiot.”

Lucifer facepalmed[5].

Behind them, the straggling demons of their escort who hadn’t been downed by the fumes of the grasses cheered. Crowley looked back at them, puzzled, and Castiel caught his eye. Still singing, he gestured. Crowley turned around again.

At the top of the tower[6] was a flame that burned bright, vicious red. It was an unnatural color, nearly scarlet. At the bottom, Ipos gave a pleased, birdlike cry: bastardized Enochian, Enochian that had been devoured by Lilim, an eerie expression of celebration.

“Looks like she’s angry enough,” Crowley said inanely as his feathers ruffled at the unpleasant sound.

“Quite,” Lucifer drawled. “Well, that’s one done. There’s only three left in Six, so that should be quick, at least.”

“Home before dinner,” Crowley said hopefully.

“Nothing ever goes right in Hell.”

“Fair point.”

Lucifer gestured, and the entourage marched again. Crowley looked back, anxiously, worried for Maze, but she came out of the tower door at a dead run eventually and got to them before they marched too far. Ipos raised a hand, and her people, untouched by the Fifth Circle smoke, of course, separated out. They clustered around her, and remained by the Tower. That was a politics thing that Crowley definitely didn’t understand. He’d ask Maze later, or something. 

There was another intersection between Five and Six near the Tower. As they approached the shore of the Styx, Crowley could see a demon sitting on a great stone. She was another lion, though she sat upright like a woman. Her tail lashed on the muddy shore.

“Good morrow, my king!” she called as they approached. “My Lord Marbas sent me to ease thy passage.”

Valpula, Crowley realized as she shifted, as he saw the wings. She was a Duchess, one of nine in Marbas’ rule. Marbas was the only Viceroy who had no territory: it was an engineer, and its people kept Hell running. They rarely spent time Earth, but apparently Valpula had, since she was a she. 

Lucifer’s horse never broke its stride, and Valpula sang, voice high and sweet. There were stitches around her neck, Crowley realized. Marbas had said that it had healed her when one of the circles garroted her.

Crowley caught Maze’s eye under the belly of Lucifer’s horse. She nodded, and they didn’t stop walking.

Valpula wasn’t as good as Marbas. She didn’t slow or shrink the river. Instead she diverted it around them, so they squelched through the mud without stopping. The muck was deep and filthy, and Crowley grimaced, because there were things in it. Flesh eating worms, the length and thickness of his thumb, inched toward his feet, and he hurried to avoid them, mincing and hissing. He was paying so much attention to the worms that he almost missed the other thing, at least, ‘til it reared up at him, the size of his calf.

Hard and purple on one side, hundreds of tiny, writhing legs on the other, it resembled an arm of a starfish, if a starfish had somehow developed a taste for demon. Acid dripped like mucus from those tiny, squirming feet. Four more arms writhed in the muck. Crowley yelped and jerked back, staggering into Lucifer’s horse, which snapped at him, snorting.

Maze snickered. Crowley gave her the two-fingered salute, even though it was vulgar. She laughed harder.

Luckily, the hellspawn-starfish-thing moved slowly. Crowley jumped over it, sputtering unhappily. As the party got to the center of the river, Valpula’s song changed; the rivered flowed behind them now, instead of before them, leaving space to reach the other sides, and the gates of Dis. Crowley minced around more worms, grimacing. It was such a relief to get to shore again.

The gates of Dis were closed, because they were always closed. Crowley looked to Lucifer, hoping they wouldn’t have to fly.

“Beelzebub,” said Lucifer, and he didn’t elaborate.

Beelzebub drew up with great importance and pranced to the front of the party, in front of Valac, until Beelzebub stood facing the great black gates of Dis.

Dis city, also sometimes called Pandaemonium because why would anything in Hell be simple and just have one bloody name[7], was surrounded by high walls. Back in the day, most of the Fallen had lived there, even Crowley, because there had been things out in the wilds of Hell, things with teeth and claws and venom. Lucifer had sent out patrols and armies and they had slayed the worst of the monsters. Now, there were Fallen spread out to all corners of Hell. Still, the walls stood thick and tall because Dis was the stronghold, in case the world should go horribly wrong again. 

Crowley came here for business meetings, generally speaking. He did not like this city. He especially didn’t like the Panic and Plunder district, where he had lived when he was young and frightened and waiting for his next molt to re-grow his feathers, many of which had burnt up in the Fall, and also in the sulfuric Landing.

But that was long ago, now. He had his feathers, and he had his Aziraphale to preen them, though the feathers in his right wing were starting to itch; Aziraphale hadn’t got to it before shit had hit the proverbial fan.

Nothing worse than half-preened feathers, he thought, grumpy, as he watched Beelzebub approach the gates and spread great, fiery wings. The Lesser Demon rubbed them together like a huge insect, and it made this awful grating buzzing noise, that rose and rose and crescendoed, drowning out Castiel’s constant, droning song. On the turrets, the demons standing watch buzzed back, though being regular old Lesser Demons, not created by Lucifer, they lacked wings[8].

Slowly, the gates creaked open.

“Excellent,” said Lucifer, and clucked at his horse, which trotted forward.

“Wait—” spluttered Crowley and bid his legs to move. “Lucifer. What the—what the Hell—”

Maze was laughing on his other side. “Race you!”

“ _What?_ ” squawked Crowley.

Lucifer’s horse trotted past Valac and Beelzebub, Crowley and Maze running at his side. Crowley spluttered.

“Why,” he gasped, “Did I not get a horse?”

“Because they’ll eat you,” Maze called from Lucifer’s other side. His steed’s hooves struck sparks from the cobbled stone of the street[9].

Lucifer blew past Amducias, waiting on the other side with his aids. Crowley heard the Viceroy sputter as they raced past; Lucifer just let his horse run on[10]. He led them down a small side street, one Crowley remembered abruptly as he saw it: this hole was ragged too, and it shone silver, unlike the others. He’d seen this one before. His blood froze and he stumbled to a stop beside Lucifer’s horse.

This was the hole that went to Nightmare-Heaven. The hole that had let Naomi through. They hadn’t closed it on their way to the Fifth Circle. Of course. Of course Lucifer knew the way, in fact. He'd seen it before, too. 

Crowley saw red.

He turned on his heel and looked behind them. Castiel had picked up Door again, and he’d spread his pretty brown eagle’s wings. He hovered lightly, before touching down, still singing. Behind them, Azazel and Focalor and the other guards rushed to surround them protectively. Loray looked bored. Behind _them_ bustled a huffing Amducias, and then the rest of their escort. Whatever. 

Crowley marched up to Door and Castiel. “You need to close this one,” he told her. “It’s personal.”

Castiel cocked his head. Carefully, he put Door back on her feet. She smoothed out her clothes, unruffled.

“I’m going to close all of them, Crowley,” she said soothingly. “It’s alright. Lead the way.”

Castiel sang, and he followed them as Crowley marched up to the hole and pointed. “This is where Naomi came through,” he seethed. “It leads to Nightmare-Heaven. Close it.”

“Wait,” murmured Lucifer, almost lazy. He snapped his fingers. “A Lesser Demon. A suicide mission. I want a volunteer.”

From their escort, demons tumbled over each other, always eager to die for Lucifer. Crowley hated Hell, but he had an idea where Lucifer’s mind had gone, and the part of him that had embraced his demonic nature liked it.

Castiel’s eyes had gone wide. He seemed to also see where Lucifer was going with this. He drew in the air. DO NOT KILL, he wrote in those flaming letters. NOT ENOUGH ANGELS. HEAVEN IS COLLAPSING.

PLEASE.

Lucifer looked at those letters and hummed. “You,” he said, pointing to a slim Lesser Demon, who vibrated eagerly. “I want you to clip the flight feathers off Naomi’s wings. You may eat the feathers if you wish. You’re not to kill her. You’re not to kill any of them, understood? Be hidden and keep yourself unseen. Every angel you see: pull or clip their flight feathers. You are not to go to Nightmare Hell. If the angels ask you why you are there, tell them it was my orders to ground every angel you could, without killing. Tell them that Naomi hurt one of mine, and I am angry, but I understand their predicament. Tell them not to trifle with me again, or I will not be so lenient. Understood?”

The demon nodded, thrilled to be chosen. The fanatics were so creepy.

It wasn’t enough, really, grounding Naomi. Crowley didn’t really have violent impulses, but he wanted to—to—trap her in a crystal, or a vat of something unpleasant. He wanted to bite her and have her experience the weakness and sickness of his venom for decades to come.

Biting was really the only way to go. She'd hurt his Aziraphale. This was personal. Still, sending over a Lesser Demon to ground her was better than nothing, he supposed.

He looked at Castiel. “Okay?” he asked, because Castiel knew the rules of his Heaven better than any of them.

Castiel was singing, but he’d quirked a weird smile. FUNNY, he wrote. I LIKE IT. WILL DEMON HURT HUMANS?

“No,” Lucifer replied. “Never. Never kill or harm humans, dead or alive, understood?”

The demon nodded.

OK, wrote Castiel.

“Go,” said Lucifer.

The demon bowed, and amidst cheers from its brethren, it raced through the hole into the other Heaven. 

Door walked up to the crack herself and closed it with a touch. Her hand shook, just once, so slightly that Crowley might have imagined it. As the crack closed, the silver light of a different Heaven faded slowly. It flickered, like the power was going out, before the crack sealed completely.

“That didn’t look good,” Crowley commented. He looked at Castiel, who shook his head. It wasn’t.

Crowley had a weird moment of abject relief that Nightmare Heaven wasn’t his problem. Looked like a total mess. Castiel’s eyes were deep and sad. Poor bastard. Poor world.

So glad it wasn’t his world. His world was just fine. His angel, and his city, were waiting for him topside and there wasn’t any sort of looming peril to worry him. He turned to Lucifer. “Onward?”

“Onward. Valac! Where are the next two holes?”

Valac scrambled to his feet and led the way.

__________

[1] Izzzzzz he though, wondered Beelzebub sourly. Crawly was the most useless of demons, and his promotion was a complete mystery.

[2] Aziraphale saw a Lady, but in those rare occasions where Crowley got a glimpse, God had always been male. Ineffable.

[3] This question always got him into trouble; honestly, he should have learned better by now.

[4] Crowley had had zero relationship with both Parents, and so harbored neither love nor hate for either of Them. 

[5] Beelzebub, who ran Corporate and who was also shamelessly eavesdropping, was incredibly insulted. Crowley wazzz already an imbecile and a traitor for the failed Apocalypse, but this was just one more nail on the coffin.

[6] Where Sauron’s eye would be, Crowley through wryly; Lucifer wasn’t much of an architect.

He really wasn’t. Barad-Dûr, the Dark Tower, as seen in Tolkien’s mind, was far more magnificent and terrible.

[7] Says the demon who fell in love with Thonis-Heracleion.

[8] Lucifer had got the idea for Beelzebub as he’d been sitting in a jail cell on Earth early in human history. There had been a lot of flies, and he had still been drunk on a truly ungodly amount of grappa, and he’d thought—What if I made a fly-Lord? He’d given Beelzebub wings for the fun of it.

[9] The road to Hell is paved with door-to-door salesmen, but the streets of Dis, when not covered with lava flows, are mostly paved with stone. Sometimes, the oldest and worst of the Hell-loops could crystallize, and could be used as paving stones, but there weren’t very many of those. Young Lesser Demons liked to jump on them when they found them. It was supposedly bad luck.

[10] Amducias had never, would never, dare to start a rebellion. As the Sixth Circle Viceroy, he was more like a mob boss than anything else. Like the Godfather, but horsier. Lucifer was the equivalent of the Pope. He didn’t want to deal with Amducias’ blustering; there were holes to close, and he remembered where the nearest one was.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE! This is the chapter with the animal abuse. Crowley is fairly matter-of-fact, and also grossed out by this. The puppy is just fine in the end, I promise, and is, in fact, in the next story :D

Crowley heard Amducias splutter as they marched away. “My king!” he cried.

“Well, come on, if you want to,” Lucifer called back to him, looking annoyed. Amducias huffed like a pony with a fly on its nose, but he fell in line. It was—a little strange to see this Viceroy, technically Crowley’s Viceroy, exasperated. Amducias had been the ruler of the Sixth Circle since they'd first conquered it, enforcing weird laws and regal and on high. Now he looked like a prissy stallion who didn’t like his feed. It was weird.

They marched down the cobbled street. The tide had gone out, since they were last in Dis, and weird clumps of cooling lava formed stones in the gutters of the street. The stones still had red-hot, partially molten cores, which Crowley discovered when he stepped on one. The damn thing melted his shoe, and though he could fix it with a miracle it was the _principle_ of the thing. Stupid Hell. They wound, slowly, through the streets. Crowley wished for a bloody horse.

Out of nowhere, Maze hissed at him. He looked over to her, to find her peering under Lucifer's steed's belly. She was glaring at him.

“There,” she said angrily, tilting her head and pointing. He followed her eyes.

Sitting on a low peak of one of many tall obsidian office buildings was Lilith, again. She had a Hellhound in her lap, one of the sickly street mutts. Its belly was torn open, and she was picking idly at its intestines, fierce eyes on Lucifer. She looked like she was thinking about something.

“Eugh,” said Crowley.

“You were going to get Raguel a Hellhound, weren’t you?” Maze said abruptly.

“I was—thinking about it?” Crowley said. “For a companion?”

“Not a guard. Good. Hey, Beelzebub, go up there and steal that dog from my mom. I want it.”

Beelzebub buzzed at her, insulted. Maze smiled with all her teeth. “Now,” she said. 

Beelzebub looked back imploringly at Lucifer.

“You heard the lady,” purred Lucifer.

Beelzebub huffed and stomped off to the office building.

Hell politics, Crowley thought, bewildered. What even[1]. Amducias strolled up to take Beelzebub’s place, his Lesser Demons staggering to keep up with him. Ugh. Lucifer visibly rolled his eyes. 

Crowley didn’t watch the altercation. Over the marching steps of the demons behind them, over Castiel’s winding voice, he heard Lilith’s shouts, Beelzebub’s roaring flames. Something about orders, something about disrespect? And something about running away. A lot about running away. Lilith was very adamant about running away, and stealing something precious to do it. Something about Him Above, and deals? Whatever. Crowley saw zero problem with Lilith running away. Good riddance; she was creepy. He hunched a little and kept his head low. Weirdly, he kind of wished he hadn’t sent Belial off. Belial was dumb, but Belial was also his muscle.

“You are very strange indeed,” murmured Azazel, who came up alongside him. Crowley jumped.

“Aren’t you supposed to be guarding Door and Castiel?” Crowley asked.

“They’re fine,” purred Azazel.

“Play nice,” Lucifer warned.

“Always, my lord,” Azazel said.

“Liar,” chuckled Lucifer.

Azazel chuckled back. “Stand up straight, Crowley Snake-in-the-Grass,” he said, imperious. “Thou art Left Hand. Thy wisdom is infallible, thy will unquestionable. Lilith cannot touch thee.” It was a formal, kingly-mood he used, old-timey and strange. Lilium had a few funny quirks, mostly having to do with royalty, and the royal court. It was also a strangely kind gesture from Azazel.

He must have an ulterior motive. Crowley straightened his back anyway. He looked to Lucifer.

“Politics?” he asked plaintively. Behind him, Lilith screamed, more outraged than in pain. " _Don't push me, you cretin! I'll do it!_ "

Crowley did his best to ignore her. 

“Feeling you out,” Lucifer was saying with a funny, crooked smile. “Doth he pass muster, Azazel?” he called, also using that formal tone.

“That remains to be seen, my king!” returned Azazel, almost playful.

“Great,” muttered Crowley. Amducias, ahead, was looking at him. He did his best not to shrink under that inquisitive, equine gaze.

“I’ve had it!” snarled Lilith, behind them. “I’ve made up my mind! I’ll not be treated so, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies! You’ll miss me when I’m gone, and you’ll regret this, you writhing maggot!”

Beelzebub’s fiery wings beat the air above them, their drone drowning most of Lilith’s rant. It landed resentfully next to Maze, holding the puppy by the scruff of its neck. The puppy wailed, skin burning in its grip, intestines dangling from the great tear in its belly. “Have it,” scowled Beelzebub.

“Mm.” Maze took it, and then slipped around the back of Lucifer’s horse and deposited the dog into a startled Crowley’s arms. “For Raguel,” she said, eyes burning bright and fierce, before making her way back to the right side of Lucifer’s horse.

Beelzebub buzzed with fury, before zipping back to the front, just a little behind Valac. Its wings clashed and droned like a particularly pissed off hornet and it landed with a thump beside Amducias, who bent to speak with it, low. 

The dog squirmed in Crowley’s arms, crying.

Crowley sighed.

It was a Hellhound, of course, but a little one. One of the sickly mutts that roamed the city, living off scraps of souls and refuse. It was definitely young, though, definitely a puppy. Crowley stroked over its head and down its neck, where Beelzebub had burned it. Under his touch, the burns healed. Crowley plucked out a small covert, and though the puppy squirmed and howled, he got it on its back and laid the feather on the gaping, painful-looking wound on its belly. Wretched Lilith. 

“Whole and well,” he murmured, and the puppy’s cries died down to whimpers as the wounds closed, intestines back to where they were supposed to be.

“Good boy,” Crowley murmured to the pup. “See? All better. I won’t hurt you.”

The puppy’s eyes were hellfire-blue in its gray and red face. It stared at him, breathing hard.

“Definitely passed muster,” Lucifer murmured fondly. Crowley jumped a little. Lucifer was looking down at him. He quirked a smile. “We need more kindness in Hell,” he said. 

“I’m not kind,” Crowley muttered as, with a cry, the puppy buried its face into Crowley’s chest.

“That remains to be seen,” Lucifer replied, teasing. “Why does Raguel need another dog?”

“This one can’t die on him,” Crowley said. The pup was small, so he slung it around his shoulders. It squirmed and then settled, little black and red paws on either side of Crowley’s neck. “He needs some continuity.”

Lucifer looked at him thoughtfully. Then he turned his head to face forward. “If you say so,” he said.

“I say so,” Crowley replied.

“Good,” Lucifer chuckled.

“And it has the added benefit of pissing off my mom,” hissed Maze gleefully under Lucifer’s horse’s belly. “ _And_ Beelzebub!”

“Yeah, what’s with you and Beelzebub?” Crowley eyed her. 

“Feud,” said Maze, offhand. This wasn’t unusual; everyone had some kind of feud going in Hell. Even Crowley did, with Hastur. “You’re already on my side. Beel doesn’t like you.”

“Great,” muttered Crowley. Truth be told, he’d choose Maze’s side in most Hell-things, anyway. She was the brawn of the two of them. And he liked how surprised everyone was when they showed that they had a sort of unity.

Valac led them through the streets at an even pace, and Beelzebub buzzed sullenly ahead of them, gossiping with Amducias. The pup fidgeted around Crowley’s shoulders and then abruptly relaxed with a great sigh. It sniffed at his temple. 

“Got a great friend for you up top,” Crowley told the dog lowly. “Just you wait. He’ll give you treats and take you on walks and spoil you rotten. You get to go to Earth. Best place ever, yeah? And he’ll Name you, too.”

The dog’s wiry tail thumped, once, against Crowley’s second set of shoulders. Every Hellhound wanted to be Named. Most demons didn’t bother with the scrawny ones, and this one was particularly little. It was half-starved, too, and mottled: a mutt, and nothing of particular use to a demon, except as a horrific plaything, as Lilith had been doing. But Rags liked an underdog, and anyway, a companion was very different from a guard dog or a hunting dog.

They marched up and down streets. Demons peered from doors and windows of the office buildings, and some of the Hell-loop doors opened too, Lesser Demons peering out. They hooted and wailed greetings to Lucifer and the entourage as they passed. Above them, wings stoked the warm air, as Greater Demons leaped and dived, great, aerial acrobatics, showing off for their king. 

“Well,” drawled Lucifer, “They figured out we were here. Not like it was difficult. Hey, Amducias!”

Amducias slipped from Beelzebub’s side to Lucifer’s. The puppy on Crowley's shoulders flinched. “My king, they are only celebrating your return.”

“This is why I didn’t want the attention,” growled Lucifer to no one in particular. “It's much easier to move around Dis without this--din. Viceroy, use some of the entourage to run interference; I don’t want anybody in our way, and I don’t want to slow down.”

“Yes, my king.” said Amducias. He turned and called to their train of Lesser Demons—what was left of it, after the Fifth Circle.

At his orders, they raced forwards in absolutely disorganized hordes, bellowing, “Make way! Make way for the king!” at the top of their voices. Amducias beckoned them, and they dispersed, slowly, down various side streets.

“They have no idea where the last two holes are, do they?” Crowley asked the general air. Amducias was definitely not clever enough to catalog the ones in the Sixth Circle for himself. Which meant those demons were definitely just running around and shouting for no reason. Idiots. 

“Nope,” said Maze.

“This way, my king!” called Valec, and he led them swiftly down a back alley, conveniently losing most of their Lesser Demon entourage. 

The last two holes were fairly near to each other, and Door closed them with little fuss. Her hand didn't shake this time, which Crowley thought was a good sign, maybe. He hoped so, anyway. From there, they wound their way to the palace in the city. It was Lucifer’s stronghold from long ago, before they had conquered the Ninth and last circle, where his Great Palace stood now. In those days, before the Fallen had taken all of Hell, Lucifer had lived in Dis, along with everyone else. As far as Crowley knew, he still came to the palace in Dis from time to time.

The streets were in chaos, what with the shrieking Lesser Demons trying and mostly failing to clear the way. Demons stuck their heads out of windows, Loops and over the sides of rooftops to hoot and holler, some even dragging the souls outside to take a look at the king. Crowley’s puppy shrank against his shoulder, shivering.

The Square of the Mouth of Lies[2], the square in front of Lucifer’s city palace, came upon them suddenly. It looked much better without the crack and without Rowena. Their party halted, much diminished now that the Lesser Demons were literally everywhere else, and they all looked up at Lucifer’s city palace, and the tower at the top. Technically, the Sixth Circle represented Heresy, but as far as Crowley knew the tower and its beacon were more part of the palace than anything else.

“Your turn,” said Maze from under Lucifer’s steed’s belly.

Crowley blinked at her. “My what?”

“To light the beacon.”

Crowley gaped. “I’ve only been in there once!”

“You can find it,” said Lucifer, looking amused. “It’s at the top. You can even fly there. She’s right; it’s your turn.”

Crowley badly wanted to explain to Lucifer that flying in Hell was a deeply terrible idea, because there were things like dragons that could eat you. But he knew that was not one of the problems Lucifer had.

Fine.

He spun on his heel and marched up to a very surprised Castiel. “Hold this dog,” he said, and shoved the squirming puppy into the angel’s arms. Castiel couldn't protest, of course, as he was still singing, and that was convenient. Crowley watched him juggle the squirming dog, for like a hot second before turning around and shaking off his ridiculous and frankly uncomfortable cape. He spread his black wings, and leaped into Hell's hot, ashy air. 

Azazel was right. He was bloody Left Hand. His wisdom was—well, to be honest it was kind of dubious at best, but Lucifer seemed to think it was good. Maze had done the last beacon. It was Crowley’s turn. That was how this worked. Apparently.

The air was thick on his wings, and the ash got thicker as he flew upwards.

Flying solo was the worst idea.

The first Leti bird caught him by surprise. He didn't see it in the fog of the ash, and they were little things, with wickedly sharp beaks. It gouged a great tear in his right wing. Crowley swore at it and swooped to try to lose it, but then the second one went for his eyes.

There was always _something,_ some wretched creature down here. He hated Hell. He hated Hell so much. He didn’t even have sharpened feathers!

Crowley swerved and ducked. Bloody birds flew in swarms, though, and they’d be a minor annoyance to someone like Azazel, with his four bladed wings, and even to Aziraphale, a Cherub in his heart if not in his head. But Crowley was a nobody; he’d been a little angel who designed iron reactions in dying stars; they’d had to explain the whole rebirth thing _twice_ before he understood the whole nebula concept—

Crowley had lost altitude. The dubious light of Hell had turned kind of green: light reflecting off bright feathers, surrounding him.

Birds. Bloody Leti birds. They preyed on insecurity, and they went for your eyes. That was how they got you. 

So. So. Crowley stroked the air with his bladeless wings, powerfully, thoughts racing. Positive thoughts. He wasn’t confident about this whole Left Hand thing. But he _was_ confident in Lucifer, for the first time in thousands of years. Lucifer was his friend, of this he was certain. And he had Castiel back, Castiel of Nightmare World with his wide eyes and wonder. Good things. Good things. Rags was going to _love_ his new dog.

And Aziraphale. Like eight of the Leti birds went for his eyes but he swerved. He was totally confident in Aziraphale. Aziraphale was an idiot but he came by it honestly, and he was Crowley’s very best friend, his very best everything. He was ridiculous, and beloved, and he’d—he’d go all Cherub on these stupid birds; he’d slice them to ribbons with that sword of his! Crowley didn’t have a sword, and Crowley was pretty stupid, too. 

But he did have _some_ brains. 

He had to light a beacon. 

He swooped down, gathering the birds to chase him. There must have been hundreds of them, soaring around that tower—envy-green, and blood-red, hooked beaks, claws extended, each maybe the size of a starling. They swarmed behind him, but Crowley had been a little angel, and while he couldn’t fly in formation, he _could_ fly fast. He shot up, the birds’ wings roaring behind him, and then folded his wings on a shallow dive as soon as he reached the highest tower; there he snapped his fingers as he passed and the spark kindled and roared with flame. The birds, behind him, were devoured in the fire, or otherwise distracted.

He spiraled down to Lucifer’s side, feeling very proud of himself.

As his feet hit the cobblestone, he heard Azazel huff behind him.

“Unexpected,” he said. There was something--weird about the way he said it. Fascinated, almost, but darker. It made Crowley uneasy. 

Ignoring his unease, Crowley looked up at the beacon: it burned copper-green, just like the wings of the birds. “What did you think would happen?” he asked, not looking at Azazel.

“I thought you would fight them,” Azazel said low and intense. Something creepy was happening here but Crowley wasn't sure what it was. 

“Nah, Maze is the brawn,” Crowley replied, playing it cool, now looking over his shoulders at Azazel. “I’m the brains.”

“I see.” Azazel’s yellow eyes glittered disturbingly. There was definitely hunger in those eyes. “Fetch your mutt; I think it is alarming the angel Castiel, and we wouldn’t want the Lady Door to go mad, now would we?” He sounded like this prospect was mildly amusing.

Crowley turned, concerned, but he didn’t have to be. The dog was on the ground, playing with Door, Castiel watching like a proud father. Azazel had misread the situation entirely; easy to do, if you never went to Earth. Crowley relaxed a little and whistled.

“C’mon, pup! No, that’s not your name, that has yet to be determined. C’mere!” He whistled again, and the dog raced from Door and over to Crowley, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Crowley scooped him up and plonked him back around his shoulders. The puppy huffed, settled in, and Crowley looked to Lucifer. “Shall we?”

Lucifer had been watching this whole tableau with amusement. “You are absolutely the weirdest demon I’ve ever had in my court. Completely demented. Never change. Onwards!” he called to Valac and Beelzebub.

___________________________

[1] Beelzebub was definitely plotting revenge, but frankly, this was Hell. Revenge was like sending an e-mail, in Hell. Mundane, happened every day.

[2] Lucifer gave a speech here once about how their Heavenly Father Lied, which was how it got its name. He really was a very good public speaker.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for this chapter: discussion of long-ago noncon and abuse. It was over 2,000 years ago, but Crowley remembers Publius Aurelius. (Information about this old bastard can be found in Mouths to Feed, and What is is Good For).

The streets of Dis were cobblestone and often coated in cooled lava from the tides. Their party much diminished, the streets in disarray from the Lesser Demons trying to control the rabble and mostly not succeeding, they wound their way to the west wall of the city. Leti birds called and cawed as they got away from the palace, but none of them dared swoop on Lucifer, never mind Azazel, Loray and Focalor. 

Valac led them to the wall, and Crowley frowned. As far as he knew, there was only one way in and out of Dis, and that was the front gate.

The walls of the city were of course made of cooled lava and stone, sang vertical by Marbas, long ago. The city was located on top of a caldera, so it did have natural walls, and the Fallen had fortified it to be impenetrable. The lava itself came up from below, not from the river; there were grates and things that occasionally blew when the tides came in[1]. In those days, when they were all fresh-Fallen and frightened, Marbas and the other engineers had erected walls quickly with what materials they had, to keep out the monsters. Now they were a relic, but they still stood strong. Were they going to fly over them?

Apparently not. Valac led them to a grate in the side of the great wall, and through it flowed not lava, but water from the Styx, brown and mucky, into the city. Next to it, leaning, back to the wall with midnight blue wings folded neatly, was a Greater Demon. One foot rested on the ground and the other heel was against the wall. Dark skinned arms were crossed, bored, at least until the demon caught sight of them.

It took Crowley a moment to place this one. Procell. They were another engineer. They’d even spent a bunch of time on Earth; Crowley had met this demon in a pub in the early twelfth century, posing as a eunuch. Not a eunuch, of course; they’d apparently had quite a lot of fun with a certain group of nuns.

“My Lord Marbas sent me,” said Procell, voice a dark growl, when the party got near enough for speech. “I am to ease thy passage to the Seventh Circle, my king.” They pushed off from the wall and bowed, spreading those dark wings. They were sleek and well preened, except for the tertiaries. Those were the hardest to reach on your own. Poor bastard didn’t trust anyone near, it seemed. 

“Exzzzzzellent,” said Beelzebub.

“Well go on then,” said Lucifer, leaning forward in his saddle. “Let’s get going.”

Procell fluttered those deep blue wings. “My king.” They reached over and pulled out the grate. The loud sound made the puppy on Crowley’s shoulders flinch.

Crowley had not known that there was a grate there. He was actually feeling kind of alarmed that there was a grate there. Since when did Dis have a back door? Dis was not supposed to have a back door!

Procell’s song was low and dark and not as skilled as Marbas’. But the grate widened enough to fit a boat. It wasn’t just any boat—it was a ferryboat, used by psychopomps to bring the dead over the Styx. Crowley had never set foot in one and did not plan to start now.

“Boss,” he hissed, sidling nervously away from the shore. The puppy whined.

“I am the king, Crowley,” Lucifer said softly. “Do you really think we would all be trapped on a ferryboat if Procell should choose to betray us?” He sounded amused. “ _This_ party?” He slipped off his horse and patted its bony neck. “Go on home, then, Pony,” he told it. “No room for horses in ferryboats.”

Wondering vaguely who called a terrifying hunter-horse Pony[2], Crowley swallowed. Lucifer was right: it was a bad political move to do anything to try to hurt the king’s court. More than that, the king’s court was mostly made up of demons like Azazel and Maze, and crossing one of them was a terrible idea, too. That wasn’t even taking into account the king himself. If Procell tried anything, they’d be wishing they were dead pretty quickly. Crowley had a long, long history of being the low demon on the totem pole, so he was a little jumpy. Lucifer, on the other hand, had a long, long history of fighting his way to the top, tooth and claw, and then maintaining that position. If he said it was alright, than it was probably alright. 

Crowley thought about this as he patted the puppy sprawled around his shoulders, and he stood to one side as Lucifer’s horse tossed its head. After nipping at Lucifer’s hair, it turned and started trotting back into the heart of Dis, presumably to the stables. He felt the heat of the horse as it passed, its flaming mane, and he stayed close to Lucifer’s left side as Lucifer made his way to the little boat. The clatter of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone faded as it got farther and farther from them. The sound was eventually lost in the noise of Dis. Crowley turned his eyes doubtfully to the ferryboat.

They all boarded, Valec and Beelzebub and Lucifer and Crowley and Maze, and then Castiel followed Door onto the boat, looking worried. Azazel, Focalor, and Loray followed, and Procell’s song changed.

The demon had incredible range, really. As the notes crept higher, a current formed under the little boat, and they whispered forward and through the little hole in the wall with ease. Outside of the walls of Dis, they traveled down the Styx a little ways. The air was ashy, but soon they got close enough to see it: the Seventh Circle, a great disc tilted sideways ahead of them, forming a forty-five-degree angle with the horizon. It was weirdly beautiful in the fog.

Procell’s song propelled them through the wide Styx, calming the rapids and soothing the currents, until they reached the far shore. Crowley looked back: though the shore seemed flat ahead of them, Dis now tilted at an angle, the two Circles intersecting uncomfortably. Bloody Hell geometry was mind boggling.

As soon as the little boat bumped the far shore and Procell stopped singing, Lucifer chuckled. “That’ll do, Procell,” he said, and flipped a coin: a pentacostal, which he’d got Somebody knew where. Procell caught it, looking pleased[3].

“My king,” they murmured.

The shore was a muddy, mucky riverbank, with a thick forest tangling at its edge. The Viceroy was conspicuously absent. The Seventh Circle was—quite different—from all the others, though. They said that Byleth, its Viceroy, was a wild thing, just like the beasts of her Circle. She followed her own rules. No doubt she would show up, in her own time.

Crowley watched Procell and Valac slip from the boat. They each grabbed a side and pulled it farther onto shore. Procell didn’t linger, afterwards, spreading those dark blue wings in a bow and then arrowing away into the reddish sky of Hell.

“You must stay close,” Focalor told Door softly, steadying the boat. “There are wild creatures lurking in this forest, and they have not seen a living human in thousands of years.”

Crowley looked back at Castiel, who met his eye. Castiel shuffled a little closer to Door protectively. That—wasn’t what Crowley had been trying to convey.

“Same goes for you, Pigeon,” he told Castiel, rolling his eyes. “Stay close to the party.”

Castiel rolled his eyes at him. When he disembarked, he helped Door onto the mud.

The forests of the Seventh Circle were indeed deep and dark. Crowley rarely came here, because Focalor was right: there were creatures here. The forests were dense enough that wild monsters of yore still lingered on, too many teeth in hungry mouths. The souls whose loops were here were the violent ones, Crowley’s least favorite. Old Publius Aurelius of Pompeii was here, somewhere. Crowley had no desire to visit.

Leti birds screamed and laughed in the trees, joined in by mocking, louder cries. Crowley knew what those were. As they began their trek, he stuck close to Lucifer’s side.

“What are they?” Door asked into the silence.

“Harpies,” replied Azazel with a lazy smile. “If we are very lucky, one will strike.”

Crowley darted his eyes to Lucifer. Lucky? How was that lucky?

“Harpies are _fun,_ ” said Maze from Lucifer’s other side.

“Now, now, Maze, Azazel, control yourselves,” Lucifer drawled.

Right. Crowley was running with a bunch of psychopaths. Right, right. As far as Crowley was concerned, harpies had claws made for catching little snakes like him. No thank you. 

They tramped through the thick forest, the pup’s weight comforting around Crowley’s shoulders. The leaves blocked out much of the light, turning everything brown and blue and black. Insects large as housecats whispered through the fallen leaves. At one point, an enormous black and yellow centipede reared up to about the height of Crowley’s knee. It snapped at him with its venomous mandibles, just once. The dog growled at it, but it sounded too frightened to be very menacing.

Crowley drew a breath to shout, but Castiel was quicker than any of their guards.

Drawing his sword, he stabbed just below the creature’s head without losing a note in his song. His eyes blazed with fury and his wings flared aggressively. Crowley had—underestimated the strength of Castiel’s loyalty, he thought faintly as the centipede writhed and died, and how he protected the people that he loved.

The centipede probably wouldn’t have reached him. Maze or Lucifer or Azazel[4] would have got it. Still.

“Thanks,” Crowley croaked. He stared at his friend, the soldier he’d somehow adopted like an eyas still in the nest, with wide eyes. He abruptly wanted Aziraphale’s opinion[5] very badly.

Castiel nodded and went back to Door. His blade vanished with the flick of a finger, and he folded his wings. His feathers unruffled as he calmed down. The pup whimpered into Crowley’s neck.

“He’s good,” said Lucifer.

“The best,” Crowley replied, once he got his voice back. He petted the puppy.

“Hmm,” said Maze thoughtfully, from Lucifer’s other side.

In the distance, the harpies wailed and called. It raked fingernails down Crowley’s spine. Lucifer beckoned them onward.

“ _Tattered flank and sunken eye, open mouth and red,_ ” they sang, dissonant voices rising and falling from somewhere high above in the trees. _“Locked and lank and lone they lie, dead upon their dead—”_

At Crowley’s side, Lucifer actually opened his mouth. “Here’s an end of every trail,” he sang, in his lovely humanized-angel voice, “and here my hosts are fed. Well met, Ocypete!”

“They have _names?_ ” Crowley hissed, appalled.

“Of course they do, don’t be rude, Crowley,” Lucifer drawled.

From above, silent and quick as an owl, the harpy descended. Crowley flinched[6] and so did his dog.

“Well met, Lucifer Morningstar,” she said as she landed, voice low and crooning—rather surprising for how they wailed. “Art thou hungry? I can send my daughters to find a fresh kill for thee.” Her eyes, black without whites or an iris, gleamed.

She looked like a barn owl, if a barn owl had gone horribly wrong. She stood at nearly two meters, incredibly pale, with blood-stained claws to match. Her feathers were very clean and well oiled, and Crowley wondered how she did that, without a beak or a dowel or any hands. Those wicked claws most certainly would not suit, never mind that they were filthy. He’d always thought preening oil was kind of gross, anyway. Powder down was much better.

Her breasts were not mammalian, which was something of a contradiction, but then Hell made no sense anyway. They were covered with white feathers. In fact, the feathers went up to her pale cheeks, giving her a sleek appearance, like a monstrous owl. Not that regular owls weren’t monstrous. Crowley had Opinions about owls.

“That’s very kind,” Lucifer said dryly. “But we’re here on business.”

“Yes, thou hast brought us a human.” Those black, hungry eyes turned to Door. She licked her lips. Castiel, singing his heart out, ruffled his feathers. “And an angel!” she added, chuckling fiercely, all predatory delight.

“No.” Lucifer said. “The human and the angel are part of this party. This circle is broken, Ocypete. There are tears. We’re mending the tears. Tell your daughters to let us pass, unharmed.”

Ocypete scraped the fallen leaves on the ground with her talons. She deliberated.

“Come now, darling,” crooned Lucifer, “I know you would devour every soul who came to Hell, given the chance. I know very well too that you prefer them alive; I laid down my laws for a reason[7]. Let’s not go down this road again, shall we? We will pass unmolested, or I shall send my armies back to the Seventh Circle to hunt you—what is it, for the fifty-third time now? My, my, you have suffered losses. Have I made myself clear?” 

Crowley caught a glimpse of Maze, on Lucifer’s other side: she was watching the harpy hungrily. Once upon a time, long ago, Lucifer’s demons had conquered the harpies, and stopped them from devouring souls and Lesser Demons. But they were often restless, and the war continued, on and off. Crowley had been on Earth for most if not all of those conflicts. He wondered where Maze had been. Had she fought them[8]?

The harpy spread her great wings in the mockery of a bow, before leaping into the air. The downdraft from her wings ruffled through Crowley’s hair and he flinched. She soared up and away, through the thick green canopy of the trees. She didn’t disturb a single leaf.

The distant wailing and screaming, her daughters presumably, died down.

“They will rebel again one day, my king,” Beelzebub said into the sudden silence.

“Yeah, but you can handle it, right Azazel?”

Azazel chuckled darkly. “It will be my pleasure, my king.”

Maze licked her lips.

“Great,” Crowley muttered.

“Onward,” said Lucifer firmly, and Valac scampered to lead.

The harpies howled overhead. Bits of their creepy songs drifted down, faint and eerie, _“Here’s an end of every trail—they shall not follow more!”_ But they didn’t come down below the canopy. Still, Crowley’s feathers were nearly standing on end by the time they got to the first hole. The dog around his shoulders was shaking.

Even Loray seemed nervous; he’d actually strung his bow at the sight of the hole, because there was a figure beside it, wrestling with the Hellhound guard. It took Crowley a moment to recognize him; only when one burnt-orange wing flared out for balance did it click.

“Belial?” he spluttered.

Belial shook off the dog abruptly and got to his feet. “M’Lord Crowley!” he blurted. The dog, who was large enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with Belial, bounced to its feet as well, tongue lolling.

“What—” Crowley spluttered, “What are you doing?”

“Stalks-By-Night is my favorite of King Lucifer’s hounds,” Belial said, bowing a little at Lucifer. “She likes to play during daylight. My king, I have news from the eels.”

“We do not care for thy eelzzzzz, Belial, remove thyself so that we may clozzzze thizzz hole,” snapped Beelzebub.

Crowley didn’t actually care about eel-news either, but as Belial slumped dejectedly to his side, he felt sympathetic enough to ask, “What’s the news?”

“Lilith has crossed the Styx,” said Belial, perking up. “They said she smelled of divinity.”

“In which direction?” asked Lucifer, who was of course listening. The Styx wound all throughout Hell; that could mean anything.

Belial shrugged. “They didn’t say, my king.”

“Useless,” Lucifer muttered[9].

Castiel did not leave Door’s side, as she approached the hole. There was a tremor in her hand that Crowley didn’t like, but she sealed it well enough. They moved on, crunching through the fallen leaves.

Monstrous shadows lurked in the woods beyond their little party. Maze twitched a little, eyes gleaming, obviously wanting to fight them. Lucifer clucked at her, and Crowley stayed close to his side.

Most of Hell was tamed and conquered, or as tamed and conquered as it could get. Lucifer had mastered it millennia ago, and spread the Fallen far and wide, to rule each circle. The Viceroys of each circle, plus Marbas, Viceroy of the Turning, made up the Dark Council. Byleth, Viceroy of the Seventh Circle, was a little wild, just like her territory. Crowley didn’t know much about her, because she was frankly terrifying, and he’d steered clear for six thousand years. He didn’t plan on ruining that streak.

The rumors said that she liked the monsters, though. The rumors said that sometimes she fed Lesser Demons and imps to them. Crowley was—so glad she hadn’t met them on the shore, never mind that Beelzebub had looked highly offended[10].

The forest deepened and darkened. Trees, old souls who had been devoured by the Wood, moaned their misery. It was kind of a dull, quiet sound, many languages from many voices whispering together. It could almost be mistaken for the leaves in the wind, except that there was no wind. He passed one tree too close, caught its Latin moan: _Dooooooolor._ Pain, suffering, hurting. Crowley shivered and tried to ignore it. This was absolutely his least favorite forest. But the Latin thickened, like they were in a grove of Romans, and finally Crowley caught a glimpse of dark eyes and a weird tooth embedded in deeply grooved bark. His heart plummeted to his knees; he skittered away, knocking into Lucifer, as Publius Aurelius himself glared at him from his woody prison.

“Crowley,” Lucifer spluttered.

“Fine!” Crowley squawked. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Caenidus[11]!” rasped the man in the tree, eyes flashing with rage. Well, they hadn’t exactly parted on good terms. How on earth had that bastard managed to get a tree and not a Loop? Not that a tree was better. It was just—uncommon.

Also, that was just rude. “Ille’st _Lucifer_ , Dominus,” snapped Crowley without thinking. “Rex illius loci est. Visne displicere illum? Come on, boss. Let’s get out of here.”

Lucifer did not come on. He stopped dead, and the entire party stopped with him. “Who,” Lucifer growled, “are you calling _Master_?”

Crowley groaned. Slip of the tongue; he didn’t really want to get into it. He gestured at the tree. “It’s— I knew him in life; he’s awful; let’s go.”

“Hmm,” said Lucifer, eyeing the tree, speculatively, clearly devising more torture. “Nothing wrong with being a caenidus, really. Rather lovely.” 

Crowley twitched. Those were bad memories. It hadn’t been lovely. Belial, standing beside him, growled a surprisingly threatening growl. His orange wings puffed up, and flames collected around his hands and feet, burning the fallen leaves below. Crowley was weirdly touched.

It was long ago and far away, though. Over two thousand years had passed. The scar on his thigh was just that: a scar. He had long since moved on. The fourteenth century had been worse, anyway. “Let's go. Let him rot, boss.” It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t want old Publius to hurt. He did. But he didn’t want to linger in the old bastard’s presence any longer than he had to. He didn’t want to think about the bastard at all, frankly. It wasn’t worth the energy.

“Strange,” murmured Azazel. He sounded just a little too invested and too fascinated. “No revenge?”

“Leaving him to rot without any sort of special attention is revenge,” Crowley growled at him. Publius didn’t deserve anything that singled him out, that made him special. “He doesn’t deserve it. Let’s go.”

“Boring,” muttered Maze.

“Neglect is crueler,” snapped Crowley, his feathers ruffling unhappily. He marched forward stiffly, just wanting to be rid of that particular soul. Belial didn’t follow.

Lucifer followed him instead, prompting the rest of the party to move with him. “Yes,” he murmured, “It is. How human of you.” He hesitated for a second, and then reached out and stroked a hand gently over Crowley’s ruffled coverts, smoothing them down.

Crowley jumped. He gave Lucifer a startled look but permitted the second caress, surprising himself.

It felt like shared sorrow, shared abandonment. Preening amongst angels had this trust element to it, and Crowley was surprised that the touch wasn’t making his skin crawl. Normally he shied away from anyone who wasn’t Aziraphale--or Trixie—unable to tolerate the feeling of being on high alert, of being in danger. Lucifer didn’t feel terrible or threatening, though. He felt like a friend. Crowley blew out a breath, comforted and a little nonplussed about it. “Thanks,” he said.

Lucifer scratched at a spot where powder down liked to build up, high near the joint, and then pulled away. It was a spot that Aziraphale hadn’t got to, back when Castiel had interrupted them when he first appeared. It felt like years ago. “Don’t mention it.”

Behind them, old Publius gave a wail. Crowley looked back in time to see Belial loping toward him. The fallen leaves behind him had caught fire.

“Belial,” growled Crowley.

“It won’t touch him, m’lord,” panted Belial as he caught up. “It’ll just give him a scare.”

Yeah, he could probably use a scare. “Just don’t burn down the forest, yeah?”

“Of course, my Lord,” said Belial. His eyes glinted with mischief. That was probably going to end badly.

Crowley glanced backwards. Azazel was watching Belial’s fires thoughtfully, and Castiel and Door, who had missed much of the conversation, looked confused.

Crowley patted the dog around his shoulders, and they moved forward, farther into the forest.

\---------------------------

[1] The grates were there so the whole city, on that caldera, didn’t blow like Vesuvius. It was inconvenient, but daily lava tides were better than blown to smithereens.

[2] Lucifer would have cheerfully told him that the horse’s name was Al CaPony, because Crowley might actually get the joke, but Crowley didn’t ask.

[3] Paying the ferryman was an old Hell tradition, from even before Lucifer’s reign, when Hell was filled with monsters and creatures, not demons. It was just good manners, really.

[4] Azazel would not have got it. Azazel was growing kind of fascinated with how Crowley dealt with danger, after the Leti bird incident. He was feeling rather disappointed that the strange angel had jumped in. He would have liked to see how the new Left Hand dealt with this kind of threat. Things Azazel didn’t know: the answer was badly. Crowley dealt with threats badly. 

[5] “Oh dear,” Aziraphale would have tutted, and would have fussed with Castiel’s wings. Angels that were soldier-caste were built to kill things. Aziraphale didn’t like it, so he would assume Castiel didn’t like it, either. He’d assume wrong.

[6] Owls! Eat! Snakes! WHY WAS IT SO CLOSE?? Crowley hated harpies!

[7] Harpies liked humans, but in the bad way. They ate human flesh, and when the flesh was gone, they devoured human souls. The Seventh Circle was filled with lingering monsters, hidden amongst the trees; harpies were one of them. They’d all fly to Earth, if Lucifer let them. He had no desire to let them.

[8] Yes. Also, grilled harpy was delicious, especially if you’d killed it yourself. Best ongoing war ever.

[9] The eels made good spies. But they were also eels, and so didn’t understand what information might be important, such as _where was she going, idiots?_ The divinity thing could mean anything, really. Lilith could have been rolling around in Lucifer's bed – the creepy way, not the fun way. It wouldn’t be the first time. Ugh, Lilith, why.

[10] Zzzhe had alwayzzz been a pain, that Byleth! Highly irregular!

[11] Caenidus is a really filthy Latin word that refers to “a man who takes it up the ass.” Romans did not view sexuality as we do (It’s all about power and who is ‘male’ and who is ‘female’), but calling someone a caenidus is an insult to their masculinity. It’s Very Mean. …. of course, Crowley had no masculinity, being a demon, but he got the spirit of the thing. 


	21. Chapter 21

There weren’t very many holes in the Seventh Circle – most of them had been in the Fifth and Sixth. Islington had apparently not wanted to venture too deeply into the dark, dank forests here. Crowley couldn’t blame it. He didn’t want to venture into the forest either. There were _things_ here.

Valac led them down toward the shore. The smell of smoke followed them: Belial had absolutely started a forest fire, and Crowley didn’t care. Let the wild beasts of the Seventh Circle burn, and old Publius with them. Crowley wanted to go home.

Harpies swooped on them as they got to the edges of the forest, calling and cackling. Belial growled at them, and Crowley watched them flinch away.

“Good boy,” Crowley muttered. He held out a caramel. Belial snatched it, pleased.

The next hole was on the shores of the river Styx, the forest at their back. It wasn’t a clean shore, or a sandy one: instead it was muddy, great mangrove-like trees with aerial roots holding fast to the muck. They grew so thickly it was difficult to say even where the shore was. Vines dripped from the branches, and where mud was visible, there were monstrous footprints from things with too many claws. There weren’t really snakes in Hell but there were things similar enough that Crowley could hear them whispering. They had seen things. It made his feathers stand on end.

But Valac, also a snake-demon, clucked his tongue and they fled.

Islington must have sat on a root to carve the hole, Crowley thought when he saw it. It extended over a great aerial root system of a tree that seemed to grow straight from the black water. The tree’s human face was nearly weathered away entirely. Poor bastard must have been here from time immemorial. Probably killed people with rocks or something. Terrible way to go, by rock.

There was blood on the roots, and it shone dull, tarnished silver: definitely Islington, and old. How had it even got over there? Islington hadn’t had wings, and even if it had, it was difficult to maneuver them here, where the trees grew so thick, and the vines dripped from them like saliva in a hungry maw.

“This way, my Lady,” murmured Azazel with a little bow. He nodded to Loray to stay on the shore, and then hopped up to the nearest root. He tucked his wings in close so he wouldn't bump the vines and held a hand down for Door. She took it, and he pulled her up.

Like he was mimicking a gentleman, Azazel led her from root to root, polite and careful. Crowley watched them make their way to the root with the twisting, ugly hole above it. Azazel was solicitous toward Door, steadying her when she wobbled, reaching back to her when she couldn’t quite climb the high, arching roots of the tree. It was—calculated. And weird. He turned to Lucifer, concerned.

“He’s a sleazy old fellow,” murmured Lucifer when Crowley caught his eye. “But he’s loyal, Crowley. He won’t hurt her.”

That Azazel was loyal to Lucifer, that he worshipped Lucifer, was common knowledge in Hell. But Door was so terribly human, especially next to a four-winged, clever and malicious demon like Azazel.

Castiel, singing his heart out, bumped Crowley’s side. One of his eagle’s wings brushed against Crowley’s, seeking reassurance. His blue eyes were worried.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Castiel,” said Lucifer lightly. “She’ll be back.”

Castiel glared at Lucifer. Amused, Crowley stretched out a wing to brush him back, trying to be comforting. It wasn’t really working.

They all watched Azazel lead Door to the hole, finally helping her stand on the correct root, the hole just above them. It was dark, as they all were, and it hurt the eyes. She reached up, stood on her toes, and touched its ragged edge. The hole sealed as if she’d pulled closed a zipper.

“She truly is remarkable,” murmured Lucifer.

And then, below, the black water stirred. Crowley had no time to cry out: from the Styx thrashed something huge, some kind of amphibian with a gaping maw. Its jaws, toothless, mucky brown and the size of Crowley’s torso, closed on Door’s arm with an audible snap, yanking her toward the water; Azazel lunged and slashed its four eyes with his bladed wings. With a squeal the thing released her and collapsed back into the river, the great dark waters swallowing it up as if it had never been there. The whole thing took less than a second.

Crowley made a choked sound, and the puppy draped around his shoulders jumped. Castiel’s squeak of shock blended into his next note. He kept on singing valiantly, though his feathers bristled with upset. 

Azazel swept Door into his arms, and leaped root to root, his great forewings half-spread for balance. He staggered to his feet in front of Lucifer, breathing hard. He set her down carefully and steadied her when she wobbled. She was covered in muck from the Styx, from the creature.

“I’m alright,” blurted Door. She sounded shocky. She was shaking, eyes huge. “I’m alright.” She was definitely not alright. Her arm was not bloody but it hung wrong. 

“Your arm’s broken,” said Maze dryly. “Doesn’t look alright.”

“How do we fix it? My king?” asked Azazel, who was not in the business of fixing things and had possibly[1] forgotten how.

“It’s alright,” murmured Lucifer. He plucked out one of his coverts. “I’ll fix it. Free of charge.” He smiled at Door.

She eyed the feather doubtfully, but she’d started to tremble harder. Tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes and her voice had gone breathy with pain. “You can heal?”

“We all can,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale’s rubbish at it, though. I can do it too, if you’d rather me.”

She looked at Crowley and then at Lucifer. She stepped up to Lucifer. “I don’t care, I don't care, just f-fix it, please, it hurts.” Beside Crowley, still singing, Castiel fidgeted unhappily. Crowley reached over and straightened one of his coverts, reassuring.

Lucifer clucked his tongue. “I’m sure it does; they have a nasty bite, apocyni.”

Apocynon. It has been an apocynon. Of course. Named for the Latinized Greek word for dogsbane, the great salamander-like amphibians could be dried and ground up to make into a sort of repellent for hellhounds—if you could catch one. Huge and always hungry, some grew larger than six meters. Door had been lucky - of all the creatures swimming in the Styx, this one was one of the few that wasn’t venomous. Deadly poisonous, yes, but not venomous.

Door offered her arm, biting her lip, clearly in pain. Lucifer took her wrist, gently, though she still whimpered. He made hushing noises, and delicately placed his feather on her forearm, which had an unnatural, kind of horrible-to-look-at bend in it where the thing bit her.

“Be whole and well, my lady,” he murmured, and she sighed, relieved, as the feathered glowed.

It didn't take long. “Thank you,” she said at last. She took her arm back and flexed her fingers, surprised. The feather, spent, fluttered to the ground.

Castiel blew out a breath, holding a note. He bumped Crowley gently with a wing and then held out a hand to Door anxiously. She smiled at him and then strolled over to take it. Her smile was strained around the edges.

“I’m alright, Castiel,” she said, though she looked tired. “How many more?” she asked Lucifer.

“Four,” said Lucifer, “All in the Eighth Circle.”

She nodded. “Let’s go.”

Unfortunately, they had to light the beacon in the Seventh Circle before they could leave. It was stupid, but it was the kind of symbolic thing that Lucifer couldn’t actually ignore, even Crowley understood that. The triumph of the king enforced his rule, and it let the demons know of Lucifer’s strength, blah blah. It wasn’t great, though, because by the time they reached the weird tower, deep in the jungle, Door was visibly pale and tired. Castiel had an arm around her, looking concerned.

The watchtower of the Seventh Circle was made of wood, which was kind of a shoddy design, given that it was supposed to have a great whopping fire on top. It sat in a little clearing in the woods, filled with chest-high briars and deadly flowers. It was a natural meadow, treeless, but not without very tall, vicious flora. Things with far too many legs rustled in the razor grasses, and harpies wheeled and wailed overhead. Crowley was enough of a snake to know that going out in the open there, beyond the trees and within the harpies’ direct sight, was a Very Bad Idea, truce or no.

Lucky for him, it was Mazikeen’s turn. She was eyeing the watchtower, licking her lips.

“Hold, Mazikeen,” Lucifer murmured. She shot him a betrayed look.

So did Crowley. _He_ wasn’t going out there!

“The harpiezzzz will attack, zzzzzire!” hissed Beelzebub.

“I am aware,” Lucifer said. He looked over his shoulder. “Loray. Shoot one of the things in the bushes, will you?” A lazy, smug order. Lucifer had a plan.

This was good because Crowley had run out of plans since the fiasco with the birds in the Sixth Circle. He watched Loray smirk and draw his bow. The arrowhead was green, and it dripped disturbingly. Loray let it fly.

From within the undergrowth, something screamed. The thing that rose up – Crowley gulped when he recognized it. Erinacon. Some awed Roman soul must have named it that, because it looked almost like a porcupine, or a hedgehog, if you took one of those and stretched it out badly and made it a predator. The size of a small bear, it whipped its head to them, teeth whirling in circles like a blender. Its spines juddered up from its back and stood on end, painted with old blood and decaying pieces of its victims. It had blended perfectly with the grasses when the spines were flat against its back; now, with them upright, it stood out and it was terrifying. 

“Oh, good choice, Loray,” Lucifer murmured as the thing galloped toward them. “Slay it.”

Loray drew back another arrow obediently. “With respect, my king, it is already slain.” He let it fly, angle perfect. It slammed into the beast’s open maw and back into its brain. Its momentum carried it forward, crashing through that undergrowth, ripping up deadly and thorny plants with its huge stinking bulk, until it came to a stop, horned nose at Lucifer’s feet, quite dead. “My arrows are poisoned,” Loray added slickly, bowing.

“New plan,” said Lucifer cheerfully. “Everyone gets a spine. Chop chop. Beelzebub leads the way and clears the bushes, as Beelzebub is on fire.”

Beside Crowley, Belial drooped. Clearly, he was disappointed that it was not him setting things on fire.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Crowley asked doubtfully.

“Well the original plan was to have Byleth launch an attack on the harpies, after they attacked us,” said Lucifer lightly. Crowley shuddered: he really had no desire to meet the Viceroy of the Seventh Circle any time soon. “I thought they would swoop down on whatever might rustle the long grass and the bushes but apparently not. But with the spines of the Erinacon, we can simply make a phalanx, impenetrable by air, and escort Maze to the foot of the tower, where she can do her business.” He nodded at Maze, who nodded back.

Lucifer strode up to the dead Erinacon and plucked out a spine. It was longer and thin and vicious, nearly the same height as he was. He brandished it, arching a delicate eyebrow.

Crowley wondered how Byleth would even know that the harpies had attacked. He grabbed a spine and pulled. Nothing happened; it stayed firmly attached to the dead creature. He pulled harder, and still nothing happened.

Belial bounced up to his side. “Here, m’lord,” he said cheerily, and pulled out a spine like he was pulling out a daisy. He held it out to Crowley, one end dripping with blood. Gross.

Crowley scowled and took it. On his other side, Maze snickered. Crowley offered her a two fingered salute. She gave him the finger, because she had clearly spent far too much time in America. She pulled out a spine with little trouble.

Bloody demons.

Scowling, Valac let Beelzebub take the lead. This was actually rather clever; Beelzebub was a being made of fire, and when it stretched out its wings, it burnt the bushes and the undergrowth, clearing the way. They followed in its wake, as it created a burnt path through the undergrowth. Beasts and Seventh Circle monsters growled and watched them from the unburnt parts of the undergrowth. A pair of orange eyes with W-shaped pupils followed Crowley, and he shivered. He could see the creature, its false leaves and fronds quivering on its camouflaged forehead. Its teeth, which he knew would be pearly white and poorly camouflaged, were carefully tucked away. A forest-beast, from the days before Lucifer had tamed Hell. Crowley had seen them prowling outside the walls of Dis, long ago. He was not so foolish as to think that they were extinct, but he had not come across one in many years.

Intelligent, it watched them, and did not come near their party. From the way Castiel stood close to Door, he saw it too.

And still, the harpies above did not strike. Maybe they saw the spines? They weren’t stupid.

It became clear as soon as they reached the tower.

The tower, of course, was made of wood, but elaborately so. The wooden columns twisted like vines and created a kind of platform over the great double doors that led to the interior of the tower. Sprawled atop that platform, grinning like the Cheshire cat, was the Seventh Circle’s Viceroy, Byleth. She had no entourage.

“Good morrow, my king,” purred Byleth. She looked like a manticore, but the proportions were wrong even for that, for a manticore was a creature that existed in Hell. Her head was human—almost, except for the cat like eyes and that Cheshire grin that stretched way too far back. Her body was that of a lion, sort of – but her limbs were too long, too slender, and instead of a scorpion’s tail, it stretched long and thin, almost snake-like but for two spines on the end.

“Byleth!” Lucifer said, and he sounded genuinely pleased. He hadn’t been pleased to see the other Viceroys. Crowley would have been curious, except that Byleth was terrifying. He patted the puppy on his shoulders nervously as Lucifer asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I saw the beacons from the Fifth and Sixth Circle; I imagined that you would be coming here as well. My shores are wide and meandering: I had no way to know where you would dock. The runners have told me that you’re closing the holes that lead to the other Hell, my king.”

“That is true,” said Lucifer. 

Byleth chuckled. “The Seventh Circle is largely untamed. No doubt the angel Islington came across a few of my less-savory citizens here.” She smiled, showing great, jagged teeth that did not look human, or even feline, at all.

“No doubt,” Lucifer said. “But tell me, why are you here? You, of all of them, know that I don’t require a ceremony.”

“It is still a pleasure, my king,” purred Byleth. “I am here to keep the harpies in line. Not that you could not do that yourself; I certainly do not doubt your strength, but they have been—restless of late, and there is no reason for you to get side tracked by them.”

That sounded suspicious. Crowley looked at Lucifer. “Seriously?” he hissed.

Lucifer looked over at him. “You doubt her word?” he murmured, too low for her to hear.

“No one is altruistic in Hell,” Crowley said.

Maze snorted from Lucifer’s other side. “He’s got a point,” she said. 

“Why else have you come?” Lucifer called to her. “Tell me truthfully, Byleth, I haven’t time for this nonsense.”

Byleth lashed her weird, pointed tail. “Very well. My true desire was the foreign angel. I have heard whispers from the other Hell. They say he is ruthless. I was merely curious. And I am truly staving off a rebellion of the harpies, as you well know, my king.”

Ruthless? Little Castiel? Castiel who dropped his blade with horror when Crowley asked? Crowley looked over his shoulder. Castiel had Door’s hand on the crook of his elbow, and he was singing, softly, solicitously. She looked unwell.

“He cannot speak,” Lucifer said. “He’s bearing the spell that allows us to close the holes.”

“I see that,” said Byleth. Her tail lashed. “The harpies will not dare attack while I am here; I have won their respect, and their fear. Between the two of us, my king, they know they will lose.” She smiled that jagged smile again. “May I approach the angel? I swear to you upon the stings of my tail that no harm will come to him on this day. I only wish to smell.”

Crowley clenched his fists. He looked at Lucifer.

“Byleth is one of the Dark Council, Crowley[2],” he murmured. “No plucking feathers, mind, my lady, and do let Mazikeen pass.”

Byleth stood up and stretched, her too-long lion’s legs pushed out in front of her. Gracefully, she leaped down from the platform, and then bowed, one lanky knee bent, as Maze stepped up to the door.

“The key is violence, my dear,” she purred.

“Duh,” Maze growled. “Tower of Violence. Also, not your dear.” She swept past Byleth and through the double doors, which closed behind her with a slam.

On the ground, Byleth’s shoulder came up to Crowley’s shoulder. She was huge, and her pointed tail twitched. “Well met, Left Hand,” she purred, looking directly into Crowley’s eyes. Hers were shocking, electric blue. “I look forward to working with you.” She grinned like a predator. Crowley gulped.

“Now, now,” said Lucifer mildly. “Crowley isn’t Asteroth. He’s more suited to games that require subtlety. I expect you to play accordingly.”

“Subtlety isn’t my strong suit,” purred Byleth.

This was a power game. Crowley hadn’t ever played one in Hell, but he’d definitely played them on Earth. He found his voice. “Then—then you’ve just given me an edge,” he managed to croak.

Byleth chuckled, dark and amused. “So I have. Let’s see what you do with it, shall we?”

Crowley gulped again and watched her sweep past.

“Say the word, m’lord,” Belial growled, loyal. “I’ve strength enough for the two of us.” His eyes were fixed on Byleth.

Crowley groped for and then patted the nearest orange wing, scratching at the powder-down between the feathers. “Good boy,” he said faintly.

Belial leaned hard into his hand and kind on wriggled happily. Crowley spared him an amused look, before looking back at Byleth, and hoping he wouldn't have to take him up in that offer. 

_________________

[1] He’d never fixed a human before. He’d never even tried. The idea had some intriguing opportunities, but the king said he did not want the girl hurt, or to be hurting. She was hurting now, or she would be once the shock wore off, and the king was to be obeyed, always. He fidgeted his wings anxiously. He’d failed to protect her. He’d failed his king. His lip wobbled. He wasn’t allowed to fail his king. The—the last time, Him Above had thrown him out of—

Beelzebub took one look at him and gave a great sigh. Another Azazelian meltdown. It rolled its eyes.

[2] That is to say, Lucifer trusted her to obey a direct order, keep a direct promise, and behave herself in his presence. Outside his presence, all bets were off. Byleth was a nasty one. She had a fondness for livers and lungs. That said, he was rather fond of the sneaky little kitten. She fought dirty and was an incredibly useful ally. She was easily bought, too: like Lucifer, Byleth mostly wanted to be left alone. Unlike Lucifer, she wanted to be left alone with her monsters. Still, to each their own, he supposed.


	22. Chapter 22

Byleth prowled up to Castiel and Door. Castiel, unable to speak, looked to Azazel and then Focalor. When they let her pass without comment he stiffened. He swept in front of Door, still singing, and mantled his wings in front of her protectively.

“Very nice,” purred Byleth. Her form shivered, and she shifted, mutable as Crowley was mutable: now angel shaped, naked and sexless, she spread her own wings, blue and white like a magpie. “Well met, war-angel,” she said. “Very impressive.”

Castiel did not stop singing, and nor did he fold his wings, but he did look very confused. Byleth tried to prowl around him, but Castiel kept her in his sights, his back to Door protectively. Crowley watched this, feeling anxious. 

Belial nudged Crowley, asking for more preens. Crowley rolled his eyes and scratched at his coverts, keeping a sharp eye on Byleth. She didn’t touch Castiel, as promised, so that was something at least. She just eyed him like a good cut of meat. It was creepy. 

“Your weakness is in your heart,” she said finally, coming back to the front. “That’s interesting. That’s very interesting. Do let me battle him when the time comes[1], my king,” she added to Lucifer with a bow. “He shall be an interesting foe.”

“I shall take that under consideration, my lady,” Lucifer said wryly. Castiel looked alarmed, and Azazel chuckled.

“Poor little angel, so unfamiliar with our ways,” he murmured. 

Castiel narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Loray laughed darkly.

Crowley almost swallowed his tongue. Blood in the water. Castiel couldn’t snark back, because he was singing, and Byleth knew it, circling and circling. The others, slow on the uptake, were finally picking up on it too. Crowley wanted to snap at all of them to let Castiel be, but that would be—well, politically unwise, here in the Seventh Circle, where things frequently devolved into violence. Crowley couldn’t hold his own against one of them, let alone all of them[2].

Thank Somebody for humans.

“That’s enough,” snapped Door, apparently at the end of her patience. “If you hurt him, I go mad, and then who’s going to close your holes?” 

Byleth looked at Door and she licked her lips. “A _living_ human,” she said. “I haven’t seen one of those in centuries.”

“Alright,” Lucifer drawled. “She's right. We need Door in one piece, my lady.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” purred Byleth, taking a step back.

From the tower above, where Maze had vanished to to light the beacon, there was a great crash and a thump.

“You might need to go get her,” Lucifer added to Crowley.

“ _What?_ ” hissed Crowley, horrified.

“I don’t doubt she can get to the top,” Lucifer said lightly. “It’s coming back down that’s the problem. She’s likely to jump.”

“And be murdered by harpies?” Crowley spluttered. Above them, as if listening, one of the harpies screamed. Crowley had no doubt that while they wouldn’t swoop _down_ , they would attack anyone so foolish as to fly _up_.

“Well, I imagine she can fight them off herself, but that’s where you come in.”

Crowley stared at him.

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “This is why you have Belial, isn’t it?” He nodded to Belial.

Crowley looked at Belial doubtfully. He was big and strong, it was true, but he was dumb as a brick. Belial was practically vibrating with glee. “I like fighting harpies,” he said. “They’re quite tasty after you set them on fire.”

Correction: dumber than a brick. "Why me,” Crowley moaned.

Byleth chortled, amused. Crowley stared at her. “Ngk,” he said[3]. He looked back at Belial.

Belial stretched his great burnt-orange wings in delight and gave them a little flap, showing off. He’d been a Throne, once upon a time, Crowley thought. That made him top tier as an angel, and so he was top tier as a demon, too. Thrones were big and strong and carried the most important people around in Heaven's glorified rickshaws. Crowley had been afraid of Belial, once. He was a dumb, but he still had all that raw strength. He'd even adapted it to Hell's violence; nobody messed around with Belial. He was an effective bodyguard.

“Fine,” Crowley muttered. This was totally inadvisable. He scooped his puppy off his shoulders and gave it to Castiel. “C’mon, Belial,” he muttered, and leapt into the air.

Belial’s great wings by far dwarfed Crowley’s, a great orange eagle beside a fish crow. It didn’t matter, though. Ten feet off the ground the first harpy divebombed them, but Belial knocked him off course cheerfully. So that was—something.

Crowley sped to the top of the tower, enclosed in a great glass dome. Within it, he could see Mazikeen fighting, blurry, against some sort of monster. Yellow ichor and red blood colored the glass in great slashes. Hovering by one of the ledges to watch for a moment, Crowley wondered why on earth it was so difficult to light each beacon. Surely, they were meant for communication? What was with the obstacle course? Hell was the worst.

He landed on a turret. Behind him, he could hear Belial crowing and shouting with delight, keeping the harpies at bay. He decided, when he felt a hot gust of fire swoop past him, that he didn’t want to know. Let Belial have his fun.

Almost as soon as he reached that decision, Maze sliced the head off the thing inside and tossed its great, worm-like body onto the pyre. Its blood ignited and it screamed as everything went up in flames. The beacon was lit, and the weird glass panels shuddered, and then melted away like they had never been there at all. That was some magic Hell bullshit. Whatever. 

“Hey Mazikeen,” Crowley called. “I’m your ride down.”

Maze was breathing hard. She looked a little worse for the wear, bright yellow ichor splashed across her face. Her hair was pulled from its neat ponytail and there was blood – her own – on her teeth. “I don’t need a ride,” she growled.

Crowley shrugged. “But maybe you want one?” he offered. Of course, that was when the harpy slipped through Belial’s guard and crashed into Crowley’s side with a screech.

Crowley gasped, shocked, and scrabbled against the turret. The harpy had claws, and they slashed hard through his skin, into the soft side of his belly and into his spine. He felt the downstroke of its powerful wings, trying to carry him away. He wheezed a gasping scream. Bad angle—he couldn’t twist to bite its leg and transforming would tear the wounds open even more. He squirmed around to try to bite anyway but the pain in his side was _unreal_. He gasped again, clinging to the turret, flailing his wings like an unfledged eyas. He was dead. That was it. He was dead. 

He thought of Aziraphale, for one fleeting moment, before the harpy beat its wings again, and then he couldn't think at all, through the pain. 

And then there was Maze, eyes near glowing with rage. One knife she threw, and it lodged hard into the harpy’s gullet. It choked and flailed, claws digging into Crowley’s belly. He gagged, but still clung to the turret, determined to at least die here, and not be carried off.

Maze kept the second knife. She sliced clean through the dying harpy’s right leg, the one with the claws embedded into Crowley’s belly and back, just below his ribs. It gurgled a scream as it died, and then collapsed forward, on top of him, onto the floor of the tower. The extra weight was beyond awful. Crowley moaned, unable to catch enough breath to scream. 

“Shut up,” Maze snapped. She shoved the harpy off him and tore its claws out of Crowley’s belly. Crowley moaned again. The world had gone kind of hazy. He was done for. He would go to the Great Empty, where dead Celestials went, and be gone, forever. Unless a harpy had the power of Unmaking? Then he would just vanish entirely. He drew in a panicked breath. He didn't know, he couldn't remember, and he couldn't think, it hurt too much-- 

“Lame,” Maze snapped. She put her fingers to her lips and whistled. “HEY! BELIAL! I need some feathers!”

Crowley—kind of faded for a second. His back screamed, his belly howled, and his wings felt like someone had tried to pull them out of their sockets. The ground was hard and hot and smelled like sulfur and blood and he definitely, absolutely wanted Aziraphale. Aziraphale would take care of him. He wouldn’t have stood for any of this. He would have hissed and gone into scary-Cherub mode. Crowley’s breath hitched. He was in fiery, excruciating pain and he wanted to go home, to be enfolded in soft cream wings. Everything hurt. He hurt all over, and he wanted his angel. He whimpered sadly.

“Stop, stop, you are not allowed to die on me,” Maze was grumbling in the downdraft of Belial's wings. Crowley, who had thought he was being dramatic and hadn’t been aware that dying was actually, literally on the table, whimpered again, frightened. She pressed a dull orange feather into his side. “What is it you angels say? _Be whole and well,_ ” she intoned, mockingly.

The healing spread like cool water over the burning wounds. Crowley’s next breath came a little easier, enough so that he tried to twist away when Maze got behind him. He didn’t like demons behind him, and he wasn't thinking very clearly.

“Quit,” she snapped, and put another feather over the wound in his back. The blood in his lungs – or what passed for blood, and what passed for lungs in a Celestial – whispered away, back into his veins where it was supposed to go. Crowley’s next breath came in a gasp, but it was a real gasp; the pain was gone. He took another deep, shocked breath.

“Thanksss,” he managed to rasp, still feeling a little traumatized. That thing had almost murdered him!

“Get me down, we’ll call it even,” said Maze. “I hate the Seventh Circle.”

“You and me both,” Crowley managed. It was official; it was his brand new least favorite circle. And harpies were the worst. He stumbled to his feet. That had been--really bad.

Belial had flown off again, to keep the harpies at bay. He must have left the feathers with Maze. Crowley looked over at her, who was scowling at him impatiently, arms crossed. Without doubt, she had just saved his life. Dying had, in fact, been on the table. He swallowed.

He offered his hand to shake. Maze clapped it, and they did their little handshake. Solidarity. Left and Right Hand. He nodded. Okay then.

In the air, Belial was still fighting that whole flock of harpies. He seemed to be enjoying himself, at least, if the gouts of flame and his delighted battle cries were anything to go by. What even, Belial, Crowley thought wearily.

“Can I pick you up?” he asked Maze. He felt like he could; He felt more a shadow of pain than actual pain, which was common with miracle sort of healing. It would go away. 

Maze gave a put-upon sigh. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t?” she said snidely.

“Consent is still a thing,” said Crowley.

“You are the _worst_ demon. Pick me up.”

Crowley nodded. He took a breath and scooped her up before spreading his wings. They were, admittedly, still a little stiff from the healing.

They arrowed back down to the ground unmolested. Crowley put Mazikeen back down, carefully, and then he whistled for Belial. Belial gave one last bellow before sweeping his great orange wings once more, shaking off the harpies as though they were gnats he had deigned to play with. He landed with a thump beside Crowley. He held out a char broiled harpy leg.

“They’re delicious, m’lord,” he told Crowley happily.

Crowley eyed the great bird-like leg. Since similar claws had recently embedded themselves into his side, it made him feel a little ill. Still he politely pulled off a very, very, very small strip of meat. “Thanks,” he said dubiously. “The rest is for you.”

Belial meandered over to Lucifer to offer him some, and Crowley thrust the strip of charbroiled meat to Mazikeen. “Please eat this,” he hissed.

“You are _so useless_ ,” she said, amused, but she took it and munched[4].

Azazel and the other demons had taken part of Belial’s kill, though Lucifer hadn’t. He also looked kind of sickened. Castiel was cuddling the puppy, and he exchanged a glance with Door like two children asked to eat escargot. They both declined the meat. The puppy yapped.

“Eighth Circle?” Crowley asked hopefully. Screw the Seventh Circle and its horrible monsters. He was over it. 

“Eighth Circle,” Lucifer agreed. “Byleth!”

Byleth was chewing happily on a piece of cartilage. “Yes, my king?”

“Keep the rest of the harpies at bay.”

“Of course, my king.” She looked up. Most of the harpies had dispersed, sitting in the trees surrounding the clearing. They all looked a little worse for the wear. Several had definitely died, and fallen to the meadow below. Their remains would be eaten by whatever monster found them. Crowley did not feel particularly bad for them. 

“And Byleth,” Lucifer added, voice imperious. His kingship settled around him like a cloak. “They attacked our Left Hand. Remove twenty of their number and be sure to tell them this is a kindness. We will not tolerate insurrection of any sort. Crowley is not to be harmed.”

Byleth smiled. It was not a kind smile. “Excellent. My household will eat well tonight, my king.”

“Very good. Valac! Onward!”

Valac licked something unspeakable from his finger and then bowed. He swept them on, toward the Eighth Circle. 

__________

[1] The time always came. In Hell, no one ever died, except the Lesser Demons and the Imps, and even that was rare. Byleth had fought most of the Greater Demons in Hell, at least once. Even Azazel and Belial, though she had lost to them both, in the early days when they were still working out their ranks. Lucifer had forbidden a killing blow, but it had still been a marvelous bloodbath.

[2] But Belial could. Belial was twitching next to Crowley excitedly, just waiting for the order. Brawls were such fun!

[3] What a delightful sound, thought Azazel hungrily. He could see why Lucifer chose this one. He was _fun_.

[4] Normally she wouldn’t deign to take someone else’s leftovers, and leaving Crowley stuck with the piece of meat would have been hilarious but—harpy really was delicious. Besides, Crowley was so out of touch with the rest of Hell that no way would he see it as leftovers anyway. She chewed on the morsel, pleased. He was much better than Asteroth.


	23. Chapter 23

The Eighth Circle, in Crowley’s not-so-humble opinion, was the worst circle[1]. It was built for Lucifer’s most hated: liars and fraud. And it touched the Seventh Circle by just a sliver, a great cliff that crumbled down into the circle below.

Crowley offered Maze another lift because that was just the kind of demon he was. She thought about it.

“I can climb,” she told him, and it was a threat[2].

“I know,” said Crowley. “But why, if you don’t have to?”

She regarded him. Then she nodded.

Their little party followed Valac up, and over the edge of the cliff. The puppy, back around Crowley’s shoulders, whimpered at the dive, but Maze whooped at the long drop down, down to the stinking depths of the Eighth Circle. Belial blazed at Crowley’s side, little blasts of joyful fire curling in his wake. He was probably unknowingly giving Azazel behind him hell with those flames, but that was kind of amusing, so Crowley didn’t protest[3].

At the bottom of the cliff stood Eligos, Viceroy of the Eighth Circle, clad in great, grand robes, flanked by all nine of their dukes. Crowley felt his arms convulse around Maze. There, on the farthest right corner, the least prestigious position, was Hastur.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley whispered. This was so the last thing he needed right now. He was still traumatized by that harpy! Now he had to deal with Hastur? Why did it have to be _Hastur_?

“What’s that?” Maze asked.

“Duke Hastur. Hates my guts,” Crowley hissed. He landed, stumbling a little with Maze’s added weight. Hastur’s eyes fixed on him from the far end of the line of Dukes. His eyes flashed hungrily he grinned, showing all his teeth. Even in Hell, where people generally had an overabundance of teeth, it was quite a lot of teeth. That smile promised pain and suffering. Crowley felt himself hunching over a little, trying to make himself a smaller target. 

Maze eyed Hastur, amused. “You’re scared of _him_? Seriously?” she chuckled. “Oh, this’ll be good.”

Belial alighted at Crowley’s side with a surprisingly graceful sweep of his burnt orange wings. On Crowley’s other side, Lucifer touched down, just as graceful.

“Eligos!” he said, and he sounded genuinely pleased.

Eligos smiled. They were a tall and slim demon, elegant and meticulously clean—very difficult in the Eighth Circle. Eligos carried a golden scepter, the head of which was a hooded viper bearing its fangs. Though Eligos was not a snake demon that Crowley knew of, that scepter made him nervous.

“Well met, my king.” Eligos knelt, slow and graceful. Behind, their dukes knelt too, even Hastur. At Lucifer’s gesture, Eligos rose, though the dukes stayed kneeling in the Eighth Circle muck. “I saw the beacon in the Seventh Circle,” Eligos continued. “I thought it only fitting that you receive a king’s welcome, in the Eighth Circle.”

Lucifer grimaced. “How lovely,” he muttered, and added, “Much as I appreciate the gesture, Eligos, you shameless sycophant you[4], we are in a hurry. An entourage would simply slow us down; we have too many as it is. However, do send your dukes onward; have them clear the area of any monsters or minions or human souls or whatnot. Be sure the drakes know we are here; I have no desire to disturb them.”

Eligos waved that little scepter. “It is done, my king.”

Wow, Crowley thought, not for the first time, as the nine Dukes of the Eighth Circle spread their wings. Things were so easy when you had the king on your side.

“Wait,” drawled Maze. All eyes went to her. “Got a bone to pick with that one.” To Crowley’s horror, she pointed at Hastur.

“Duke Hastur?” Eligos purred. “Has he displeased you, m’lady?”

Lucifer chuckled, and his eyes gleamed. “Yes, actually. Come forward, Duke Hastur. The rest of you, go away.”

Oh shit. Crowley felt himself freezing up with terror as the other dukes left in a flurry of feathers. There was no place to run—or rather none to hide, as the Eighth Circle was Hastur’s home turf; he knew it better than Crowley, and he was faster. Oh shit. Crowley was dead.

Again.

Shit shit shit.

“My lord?” murmured Belial, voice a low growl. He was eyeing Crowley, puzzled, like he wasn't sure what to do with Crowley's totally obvious fear response.“Has this Duke displeased you?” He cracked his knuckles.

Crowley blinked. He shivered back to life, and he looked up at big strong Belial, with his dark eyes and his orange wings. Those eyes shone with loyalty. Oh.

_Oh._

Belial outranked Hastur. Belial outmuscled Hastur. Technically, Crowley outranked Hastur these days, but that was so absurd as to be impossible. Mazikeen, though. Mazikeen was the best fighter Hell had, and she was a friend.

And then there was Lucifer.

Crowley was—well protected, here. He let out a breath, perplexed. Belial was still waiting for an answer.

“He threatened my life,” Crowley said, honestly.

“Did he,” snarled Belial, swinging around to glare at Hastur. 

Apparently Crowley's stupid feud with Hastur was now Belial's stupid feud with Hastur. Would you look at at that, Crowley thought, stunned. 

Hastur held his head high, and clearly tried to keep his eyes fixed on Lucifer, though they did twitch to Belial once or twice. He even knelt down on one knee. “My king,” he muttered.

Lucifer glanced at Crowley. He arched an eyebrow. It took Crowley a second to figure out what on earth was going on. And then it hit him; Lucifer was offering—anything. Anything Crowley wanted, he could do to Hastur. Absolutely anything.

Crowley cowered into Belial. Crowley had hated Hastur since before Eve had nibbled that apple. He’d tried to kill Hastur once, and missed, unmaking only Ligur. Hastur had been his superior since time immemorial. Not that Crowley had any allegiance to the Eighth Circle. Technically speaking, Crowley’s citizenship was to the Sixth Circle, though really, he was Earthbound now and forever.

The moment stretched on, awkward, though Belial half-spread his orange wings, an aggressive, almost protective gesture. Everyone ignored him, though Crowley was touched.

Finally, apparently cottoning on to the fact that Crowley was petrified, Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Duke Hastur,” he said flatly. “You have a grievance against my new Left Hand. Speak.”

Hastur looked up, right into Crowley’s eyes, and smirked like was relishing this moment. “The rotten snake _unmade_ Ligur. That goes against everything we stand for, my king. And he botched the whole bloody apocalypse! It was entirely down to Crawly!” He paused, and then said, an accusation clearly meant to get Crowley thrown in some dungeon somewhere without half his limbs, “And he’s a _traitor_ , my king!”

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed. He was also clearly enjoying this moment, and for one horrified second, Crowley actually feared for his limbs. What if Hastur convinced him?

Lucifer leaned forward. “And this,” he said softly, pityingly, “Is why you will never be given command of the Legions of the Damned[5]”

Crowley let out a breath that was almost, almost a laugh. Still a friend, he thought wildly. Lucifer was still his friend. 

Hastur’s eyes went huge. “My liege?”

“What else?” Lucifer purred.

“He—he—he trapped me in an _ansaphone_!” spluttered Hastur.

Lucifer chuckled. He already knew about this, of course. “Mm,” he said, glancing to Crowley with dancing eyes, “That is cruel. Good thing this is Hell, don’t you think?” He smiled with all his teeth. The easy amusement directed at Crowley drained out of him abruptly as he focused on Hastur. “Go about your duties, Duke Hastur,” he added darkly. “And don’t skulk about my Left Hand again. Do you remember what happened to Orobas?”

Hastur clenched a fist. “You removed three limbs, my king, because he plotted treason.”

“I did.” He smiled like a shark. “Shame if you lost some of yours too.” He paused as if thinking about it, and added, “Not really. I’m very good at removing limbs. Understood?”

Next to Crowley, Belial growled a frankly terrifying archdemon’s growl for emphasis.

Hastur spared Crowley one glance. His eyes burned red in rage, and he was definitely plotting revenge, but he skedaddled, rather than face the king’s wrath.

Crowley turned to watch him go, shocked. Castiel caught his eye and, still singing, he ruffled all his feathers as if to say, _good riddance!_

“I’ll be dealing with him from now on,” Maze purred. Crowley had no idea what to say. He gaped at her like a fish.

Support, Crowley realized, dumbstruck. He had support. Lucifer was on his side, and Mazikeen, and even Belial, stupid bloody Belial, looked ready to tear Hastur to bits if he got too close to Crowley. Crowley was _in._ He was really Left Hand. He knew he was Left Hand, but he didn’t really _feel_ it, feel that he was in the aristocracy for real, until now.

“Close your mouth,” sniffed Azazel, “That is most unbecoming. Nobody wants to gaze down your gullet.”

“Might give uzzzz ideazzz about your tongue, and how one might remove it,” buzzed Beelzebub. Crowley snapped his jaws closed.

“Now, now,” Lucifer said mildly. “We have four more holes to close. Eligos—point us in the right direction. Where is the worst hole in your realm?”

Eligos swept an elegant bow, swallow’s wings half spread. “This way, my liege. It is not far from here.”

Unfortunately, they set off on foot.

The thing about the Eighth Circle was that it was for liars and fraud and that sort of thing. People who were full of shit, essentially. Lucifer really didn’t like liars, so he threw them in the circle that was the grossest. The Eighth Circle was one long muddy plain, gross and squelchy to step in, and it smelled awful. The stench came from the Malebolge himself: an twelve-thousand-ton worm, the kind of worm with the legs and the internal jaws that lashed out.

At the Start[6], Lucifer and Azazel and the others had killed many of the worst monsters that made Hell uninhabitable, slowly conquering it, circle by circle. In the Eighth Circle, they had left the Malebolge and his children alive. No deal was struck; Lucifer had simply let him live. Crowley had never bothered to think about why, before, or even to ask.

Now, he wondered. The Malebolge was so large that he carved out great ditches with his movements around the muddy plain, stopping here and there to lash with his extendable jaws at the Loops of the humans imprisoned here. He was a terrifying creature[7] and he stank, and he stank, and he stank, and he produced so much waste it was almost embarrassing. Like the Seventh Circle, the Eighth was barely tamed, though Eligos moved through the horrid terrain with confidence. Stinking mud clung to Crowley’s shoes. The whole place was practically made of shit. 

The ditches, which they waded around and jumped over, were filled with heaps and heaps of actual worm shit. And it stank like carnivore shit, just a hint of dead things in that distinctive, digested smell. Ugh. Eighth Circle. Miserably, Crowley trudged next to Lucifer.

“So,” he said to Lucifer, finally. “Why didn’t you kill him?”

Lucifer glanced at him. None of the dirt or the stench was sticking to him. Crowley had tried that, but it didn’t work in Hell, because it was Hell. Right? He looked around furtively.

Belial was filthier than Crowley. Maze was covered in muck, and didn’t seem to care, and Beelzebub, on fire, was burning darker, releasing foul puffs of smoke whenever it touched the ground. Valac, beside it, was also filthy. But Azazel was mostly clean, and Castiel looked mud-spattered and pissed. He’d lifted Door again and was glaring at Focalor as if the filth was her fault. Loray looked like he’d rolled in it. Gross.

“Kill who?” Lucifer asked mildly.

“The Malebolge,” said Crowley. “Could never work out why.” He stepped in something particularly foul and tried not to think about it. “You killed all the other horrors, back in the day.”

Lucifer huffed. “You can’t,” he said. “If you kill the Malebolge, you kill the whole Eighth Circle. It dries up and becomes uninhabitable, and it slides into the Ninth Circle, which in turn scrapes the First Circle, and cuts out a big hole. The Malebolge needs to be alive and free to wander about the place and keep everything—” he wrinkled his nose at the stinking, horrible ground, “—damp.”

“Lovely,” said Crowley. “That’s—” he wanted to say _kind of an easy weakness for Heaven to exploit,_ but he didn’t know how.

“Why do you think I have Eligos here?” Lucifer said, amused. “They’re a prat and so are the dukes, but someone has to protect the bloody worm.”

“…. oh.” said Crowley, surprised that a Viceroy might actually be useful. “That means… Byleth is there to control the harpies,” he said slowly.

“There you are,” Lucifer said.

“Ipos is the bog monsters and Amducias?”

“Rabble,” sighed Lucifer. “And every city needs a mayor, even Dis.”

“Every circle has a thing,” said Crowley.

“That should have been obvious millennia ago, Crowley,” Lucifer said dryly.

“And that’s how you do it,” Crowley continued, surprised to find literally anything well-run in Hell, “That’s how you rule, it’s not you, it’s the Viceroys keeping track of their thing, whatever the thing is—Boss you’re an _idiot,_ ” he spluttered.

“I beg your pardon?” Lucifer spluttered back.

“Everything’s already in place. Why did you do this to yourself? Come down for a meeting once a week in Hell with your Viceroys and then zip back up to Earth. You could stay in LA indefinitely, provided you visited every so often. You created the system. Why don’t you use it?”

Lucifer blinked at him. “They would rebel,” he said slowly.

“No, they wouldn’t; you’ve been gone for ages and they haven’t. You could visit frequently, and you have Azazel and Beelzebub to secure your place. Spend a few hours less at Lux a week and come Down or visit between cases. And, frankly, who cares if they rebel? Honestly, boss. All you’d have to do is show up sometimes. Once a week, twice a week. Time's a little different down here but it'd still work if you were consistant. You designed the place to run itself, didn’t you?”

Lucifer stared at him. He pointed at him. “We will talk about this later,” he said, and utterly failed to sound menacing. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“As you say, my king,” he said, sarcastic. Lucifer reached over and sort of pushed him with the leading edge of a white wing, but it was playful. It also left a smear of ash and stuff on Crowley’s shoulder and—gross. Why was Hell so gross? His own wings must have been a mess, never mind his horrid clothes, bloodied from the harpy’s attack. He’d need to hose himself off. Ugh. Wet wings were the worst.

Crowley opened his mouth to sputter at Lucifer when Eligos bowed grandly, spreading those swallow’s wings. The undersides were pale yellow, marred by the Eighth’s Circle’s muck.

Beside the Viceroy were not one but two holes, nearly next to each other. Rage was writ in every line of both, somehow, and it looked like Islington had spread its arms wide and raked the nails of both hands through the fabric of the universe. Just behind the holes were two great worm jaws. One was melted. The Hellhound was sitting beside the jawbone, wagging its tail.

“It screamed,” Azazel said, as everyone looked in horror. “Islington. The sound destroyed the worm, a child of Malebolge. And it spread its arms and tore these holes.”

“We heard the scream, my king,” Eligos said, brisk and surprisingly professional. “But by the time we got here, it was gone. Come, Slayer.”

The fearsome-looking dog trotted up to Eligos and snuggled up to their side, completely belying the name _Slayer_. Its shoulder came up to Eligos’ shoulder.

“I see,” said Lucifer. “Well. My brother has Islington now. It’s his problem. Chop-chop, Lady Door, let’s get this over with.”

Castiel somehow managed to make his next note sound disgruntled, and he carried Door to the holes. Very carefully, he placed her between them. She—didn’t look great. Her skin was waxy pale, and her hair had come a little undone, her clothes filthy. She swayed on her feet a little. 

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked. The puppy on his shoulders whimpered, and he patted it.

“Fine,” Door replied shortly, gritting her teeth. “I’m fine.” She reached up and sealed the hole on her left. As the last part of it closed, she swayed again, more dramatically.

“My Lady—” Lucifer started.

Door gave a little growl and reached for the second hole. It sealed, elegantly as always, but her hand shook as she pulled away. She took a breath as if to speak and then, all at once, she collapsed into the muck.

Eligos made a hungry sound but Castiel had lunged in her defense, his great wings mantling about Door, and he was singing through gritted teeth.

“Alright—alright—” said Crowley. He approached carefully. “Alright. You know I won’t hurt her, Pidge, let me see.”

“Stand away, Eligos, and your dog, too,” Lucifer said sternly. The demon complied, though they looked dissappointed, as did the dog.

Crowley squelched through the muck to get next to Castiel. “Let me see,” he said again, softly. Castiel’s eyes flashed dangerously, incongruous with his funny feathered headpiece, but he let Crowley see.

Door had curled herself into a little ball, breathing hard. Her eyes were open but frightened. Crowley knelt beside her.

“Hey,” Crowley murmured. “Can I see?”

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in the days of Thonis and Bakt, Crowley had loved a healer. Kemsit had drowned in the Nile, but she’d taught Crowley a thing or two, first. She’d taught him how to find a pulse, which he found on Door, fast and thready. She’d taught him to recognize clammy, sick skin, and the shakes. Lots of people collapsed from exhaustion in Thonis. The sun was hot and unforgiving. How long had they been down here? Had Door had any water?

No, Crowley thought. There wasn’t any clean water in Hell, and even if there were, she would probably be cursed or something if she drank it.

He looked up at Lucifer, standing awkwardly and watching, worried.

“We have to get her home,” said Crowley. “I can heal her some but what she needs is water and rest. She won’t be able to close any more holes. Right? You’re done?” he added to Door, softly.

She huffed out a sigh of breath. “Done,” she whispered.

“There’s two more,” said Valac.

“Too bad,” said Crowley, sharply, pulling his new confidence around himself like a cloak. Castiel’s wings spread wider and ruffled in agreement. “She needs to go home.” Lucifer would back him. He was certain of it.

Lucifer nodded and, sure enough, he said, “Then home she goes. Loray, Focalor, you are to guard the remaining two holes. Beelzebub, return to Dis where you will act as steward. Accept no questions about the holes, do you understand?” Beelzebub nodded and spread its flaming wings.

“Valac,” Lucifer said, clicking the final C. Valac stood to attention. “You are to aid Eligos. Both of you: keep the last of the holes secure, and _word_ of those last two holes quiet. Understood?” Eligos nodded.

“And,” Lucifer added. His eyes blazed red with threat as he added, “If word gets out, you come to me.” 

“Yes, my king,” said Eligos, echoed by Valac.

“Now go,” Lucifer snapped, and with a rush of wings they flew off, all of them.

Carefully, Crowley knelt and scooped Door up in his arms, even though the muck of the Eighth Circle was all over her now. Gross. She seemed as small as she had been as a girl, even though she was an adult. Though fully awake, she was lethargic and put her head wearily on Crowley’s shoulder.

Castiel stayed close, protective. He must have really bonded with her, Crowley thought abstractly. That was sweet.

“Wait,” Lucifer said, eyes on the fading figures in the sky. “Wait for them to go first.”

“Lucifer,” Azazel said abruptly, a weird departure from his normal respectful titles, “Get down.”

And then everything went—kind of brown. Castiel had lunged in front of Crowley and Door, his banded wings raised aggressively. He didn’t miss a note as he pulled out his blade, though Crowley did give a gasping cry because one of the Malebolge’s children, bigger than a bloody lorry, reared up from nowhere, a huge worm with an extendible jaw.

It had crept up on them when they stood still, its thousands of legs slipping silently through the muck. It was gray and mottled maroon, and it stood downwind. They would have seen—or rather smelled—it coming if it hadn’t. The thing had four eyes, black as pitch and absolutely vacant of any kind of soul, filled only with hunger. Filth hung in goopy gobbets from its underside as it reared up, as its mouth rippled, preparing its great black jaws to lunge.

Crowley gaped, paralyzed. He’d never seen one this close before. His whole life – it was very long and not as interesting as one might think – flashed before his eyes.

The worm made a weird, high-pitched wailing noise when Azazel struck it. The sound intensified as Maze stabbed it with one of her blades. The thing thrashed, and the wound from her blade foamed disturbingly. She’d embedded it in the worm’s side; it thrashed and thrashed but she held on, only releasing her blade as the worm’s vicious jaws lashed out, hooked and spined. Azazel took to the air, brass wings flashing. The worm screeched; there was something wrong, that knife had—had _done_ something to it—

And then there was Belial.

Belial was an idiot. But Belial also set the muddy, caky ground alight, because setting things on fire was kind of his thing. Worms, as a general rule, do not like fire. The worm wailed at the sight of it, its glistening skin drying out, and with one last, vicious snap of its jaws at flying Azazel, it turned tail and fled back into the mud of the Eighth Circle, Maze’s knife still embedded in its side. That weird foam flew off in flakes as it fled, leaving a horrible, stinking trail.

“That knife was new,” Maze complained. She dusted her hands off. Her palms were black and green, but the disturbing colors faded, unable to cling to demon skin. It was a curse.

It felt like an age ago. The cursed knife she'd bought at the Floating Market. That was probably why the creepy foam, why her hands had changed color; lucky, lucky demon, she seemed to be immune to whatever horror that thing cast back on its user. Crowley giggled sickly. “Bet you anything that thing is going to grow like eight heads or something, if that was the London Below knife[8].”

Maze made a face at him.

“Belial,” Lucifer said lazily. “Put out the fire.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Belial, and the flames went out. He looked hopefully at Crowley.

Crowley was still holding Door. “Good job,” he said lightly. “Soon as we get Door safe, I’m giving you a Mars Bar.”

Belial brightened.

“What is,” Azazel asked, “a Mars…… Bar?”

Lucifer snorted. “It’s sweet; you won’t like it,” he said dryly. “But you did well and I’m thinking Crowley might have the right idea here. We’ll get you some nice, cured meat, alright? As a reward. You always struck me as a sausage man.” He grinned.

Azazel looked at him doubtfully, clearly not getting the joke[9]. “Very well, my king.”

Maze rolled her eyes. “I’m drinking your best whisky, that’s my reward. Are we going home or what?”

Lucifer spread his white wings. “Oh yes,” he said. “We’re going back. Azazel and Belial: return to the Ninth Circle and await a summons.”

“For Mars Bars,” Belial said to Crowley eagerly.

“For Mars Bars, you big lug. Now go on, do as he says.” That probably came out more affectionately than it should have.

Belial flapped his wings happily but didn’t go anywhere, eyes on Azazel.

“My king, I don’t wish to leave you here unprotected—” said Azazel anxiously.

“I have Maze. Go.” That was an order. Azazel’s wings blazed in the meagre light of the Eighth Circle, and he went, shortly followed by Belial.

“Maze,” said Lucifer, and when she nodded her consent, he swept her in his arms, and flapped his great white wings. Crowley and Castiel followed, and together they flew back through the Seventh Circle and back to the Sixth, where there was a door that led to London Below.

____________

[1] Well. That had been before he’d been _literally gutted by a bleeding harpy._ Now the Seventh was officially the worst, with Eighth as a close second. Whatever. The Eighth Circle was still disgusting.

[2] It was complicated. It didn’t do for the Lilim to show weakness, especially not Mazikeen, Lucifer’s Right Hand. But Crowley had a point. Why climb when you had a ride? He clearly didn’t think she was weak. Having an ally in Lucifer’s Left Hand was—useful. And kind of better. Asteroth had been an asshole.

[3] Azazel was _SURROUNDED_ by idiots! Wretched Belial and his wretched flames! He was going to drown that half-wit in the Styx one of these days, and when he came up again (for demons could not die in this manner as they didn't really need air) he was going to _drown him again_.

[4] Eligos was the biggest kiss-ass in Lucifer’s whole wretched kingdom. Normally, it was a delightful pick-me-up, though they were terrible at what passed for sex Down Here. It was a pity, especially since Eligos had been to Earth several times and liked to boast _all_ the genitalia, like it was a game of pokemon and they had to catch them all. This could have been very interesting indeed, but mostly Eligos was a bore. Anyway, Lucifer didn’t have time for Eligos’ whole song and dance routine right now.

[5] Crowley had told Lucifer all about Hastur and Ligur over drinks, some years ago. Really, he had been teaching Lucifer how to deliberately lower his tolerance for alcohol, and then how to sober up. Lucifer, rather drunk and apparently not that attached, had cackled when Crowley told him that Ligur had fallen for the bucket-on-the-door trick.

Crowley, in dire straits, had lied to Hastur to buy time: he’d said that Hastur had passed a test, and that now Hastur would be promoted to command of the Legions of the Damned--provided he let Crowley make a phone call. With that, Crowley had disappeared into the phone line, trying to escape. Hastur had followed him, and Crowley had trapped him in the ansaphone on the way out. Lucifer had nearly choked on his Scotch.

“Legions of them!” Lucifer had howled. “As if they’d cooperate!” and Crowley had offered his glass. They’d clinked, chuckling. 

[6] Not to be confused with the Beginning.

[7] Not, strictly speaking, a ‘he,’ but the Lesser Demons had referred to him as a ‘he’ since time immemorial and he didn’t much care, being a worm. It was just a quirk of Lilim, really – Lilim didn’t have genders, of course, since demons didn’t have genders; gender was learned from humans. Malebolge was referred to in the way one might refer to a filthy human male who smelled particularly bad. Grammatically speaking, he was treated like a damned soul in Lilim, sort of, even though he was definitely Hell forged.

[8] Nah. The worm broke into eighteen pieces, each larger than the last, and each immune to fire. Eligos was in for a nasty surprise, and a new breed of giant worm. The curse on the knife was that, somehow, it lost every battle, though not in the way you might think.

Why ANYONE would curse such a thing in such a way would have been COMPLETELY BEYOND Crowley, if he knew. Bloody human curses. They were the worst.

[9] I am neither a sausage nor a man, my king, Azazel would have said, if they were alone, but they were not and it didn’t do to be disrespectful.


	24. Chapter 24

Castiel coughed as soon as they rushed through the door, disheveled and covered in soot. He stopped singing right away, and the absence rang eerily in Islington’s Cage. In the silence, water tinkled gently somewhere, far in the depths of the cave. Crowley clutched Door. Where was Aziraphale?

“Angel!” he called, and it echoed weirdly.

“ _Crowley!_ ” There was a scuffling noise behind one of the creepy iron pillars; Aziraphale scrambled to his feet and then bustled over. “You’re back! Is that another Hellhound?”

“What the hell were you doing sitting over there? I thought you were the guardian of the Eastern Gate,” Lucifer spluttered, carefully putting Maze back on her feet. She wandered over and set her shoulder against the great, wood and tarnished silver door to Hell, pushing it closed. Ash swirled in its wake when the door shut with a very final clang. After it was closed, the only light came from flickering candles around the dark cave-like room.

“Oh, well, I've always been a rubbish guard and it all became rather pointless you see—oh, dear, is that the Lady Door?” He rushed over to Crowley. “My dear boy, you’re filthy! It that _blood?_ ”

Yep, it was totally blood from when that harpy tried to disembowel him, and it was all over his side. Luckily these horrible clothes were going to cease to exist once Crowley had a moment to relax. He was so bloody relieved to see Aziraphale. He wanted to snuggle up to his angel but he had a human in his arms. He gazed at Aziraphale instead, feeling abruptly wobbly, this close to comfort. 

“He was attacked, I think. I didn’t see much, but someone healed him,” Castiel said, a little raspy after so much singing. It was strange to hear him speak again. “The Lady Door’s exhausted. Crowley said it was overexertion.”

Aziraphale reached out to touch Crowley’s arm, at the mention of being attacked. “My dear?” he breathed, horrified. His eyes kept flicking to the squirming puppy around Crowley's shoulders, confused[1].

Door answered for him. “M’fine,” she mumbled into Crowley’s shoulder, disoriented. It wasn’t very convincing, and he clutched her tighter. They were both covered in Eighth Circle muck. Gross.

Crowley managed to make himself speak. “I’m okay too. Well. Totally traumatized, scarred for life, but physically okay. She needs somewhere safe to rest,” he added with a nod to Door. “I can heal her, but you know it’ll just make her sleep in this condition.”

“We can get her to Richard, and then the Earl’s court,” Aziraphale said firmly. He stroked Crowley’s arm, and his fingers drifted down to where his clothes were torn, examining him for wounds. There were none, of course. “She has friends there.” Having finished his assessment of Crowley, he rested the backs of two fingers against Door’s cheek. She stirred. “It’s alright, my dear, you’re among friends,” he told her. She relaxed.

“What is Earl’s Court?” Castiel asked, fretful.

“The Earl of the Underground trains. He is a good friend to the House of Arch; he’ll have someplace safe for her to rest.” Aziraphale brushed some muck off Crowley’s shoulder, fussing, worried.

“Can’t we take her back to the bookshop?” Castiel asked[2].

“No,” said Crowley. “Door is of London Below. If we take her Above it’ll—well, it’s kind of hard to explain, but it’ll cause trouble. The bookshop might fall Below, you see, and Chloe’s there, which means she might fall Below, and every Above human who comes in contact with her is in danger of getting lost Below—”

“Chloe’s at the bookshop?” Lucifer’s voice floated down from somewhere in the darkness. He and Maze had walked into the darkness, looking for the front door. 

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said. “And, er, Lucifer—”

There was a very loud _clang._ As the echo died, Lucifer said, surprisingly soft and young-sounding, “What?”

“It’s locked,” said Aziraphale, apologetically. The bottom dropped out of Crowley’s stomach. He almost dropped Door, too.

“IT’S WHAT?” screeched Lucifer, enraged like Crowley had never heard before.

“Locked?” Crowley echoed, terror weakening his limbs and Door took a shuddering breath in his arms[3]. Locked, this cage was impenetrable. It was built to hold angels for eternity. Locked in here, they were trapped.

Aziraphale shrugged at him calmly. “Every cage has a way out,” he said. “Not to worry, dear boy.” It was only mildly comforting. 

From the other side of the cage, echoing weirdly, Crowley could hear Lucifer pounding on the door with all his strength. It started measured, but then it went a little—frantic. A rush of wings, a blaze of bright light, and Lucifer shot upward, up, up, up to the roof of the cave, which was covered in stalactites. The powerful sweep of his wings and the blades at their tips knocked several to the ground, shattering on impact with a loud crash. All the while, Lucifer glowed like a sun.

Crowley shielded Door with a wing. “Boss!” he called, startled at the display.

“What is he doing?” Castiel asked.

“Looking for a way out,” Maze replied, jogging up to them. “He’s _panicking_ like an idiot. LUCIFER!”

Crowley looked up at the shining devil, and he couldn’t blame him. There was a sharp tightness in his chest. Aziraphale’s calm demeanor helped, as did Door’s warm weight in his arms and the pup on his shoulder, but it didn’t fully stop the fear shivering inside him.

This cage was _impenetrable_ , even to angels. It was a jail cell, for some of the most powerful Beings in existence. They were locked inside, and there wasn’t supposed to be a way out. The thought of spending eternity in the cage that drove Islington--well, madder than it already was--was not a pleasant one. Fear crept up Crowley's throat like bile. 

“Aziraphale has a back door,” called Castiel, but he sounded shaky, too[4].

“Yes, I do,” said Aziraphale, firm. More stalactites crumbled to the ground. Above, Lucifer let out a hiss like an angry swan.

Crowley closed his eyes and he inhaled, slowly. Lucifer panicking was making him panic. He could feel it curling around him in tendrils. “Lucifer,” he called, eyes closed, trying to breathe. It came out a little strangled. “Come down. We know a way out.”

Above, the blazing, panicky light faded. There was a _woosh_ of powerful wings. “A way out,” he echoed, a little breathy.

Crowley opened his eyes as Lucifer landed. Lucifer looked—wild. Usually composed, his hands shook as he folded his wings, as he brushed debris and hell-soot from his jacket. He was breathing hard, and he was still glowing.

Long ago, Lucifer had freed himself from a cage in Hell. Crowley knew this, intuitively. He hadn’t been there. He’d been busy scraping together a life for himself, trying to survive in a Hell that was still untamed. The cage thing wasn’t really something he thought about, much. Lucifer didn’t act particularly traumatized. Looking at him now, Crowley could see that he clearly was[5]. 

“Yes,” said Crowley. “Aziraphale says there’s a backdoor.”

“A backdoor,” Lucifer echoed. He sounded a little—hollow. Some of his glow dimmed. 

“Well,” Maze drawled, “This has been fun. And by fun, I mean terrible. How do we use the back door?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Is everyone ready?”

Everyone nodded. Casually, Aziraphale spread his wings, all four of them, stretched to their fullest and paired like a dragonfly. Crowley had Feelings about Aziraphale being a Cherub again, Mixed Feelings, but he had to say that the extra wings were, in a word, glorious. Light spilled from between his feathers, and he flapped, once. The wind blew back the hair on Crowley’s forehead….

….and he was sitting on the ground of the British Museum at the foot of an enormous painting of an angel on a cathedral door. It was dead nighttime. There was nobody in the place at all, and everything was dark.

And then Lucifer moved, lights finally snuffing. The motion sensors blinked. The British Museum alarms screamed.

“Time to go,” blurted Crowley, and bolted.

The king of Hell, two demons, a hellhound, two angels and the Lady Door walk into British Museum. “This way,” says the first demon, and they follow him to a dead end. “No, this way,” says the first angel, and he leads everyone else to a second dead end.

The second angel, who occasionally has a brain cell, races to the nearest window, and smashes it. “This way,” he says, and everyone piles out, wings against the sky.

Mazikeen of the Lilim loudly despairs for everyone’s intelligence. 

The joke needed work, Crowley thought, flying as fast as he could for Aziraphale’s bookshop, the safest place he knew.

“ _No, my dear; we must head to Earl’s Court_ ,” Aziraphale called in Enochian, over the wind. _“Or the Blackfriars. The Lady Door must be safe.”_

_“We don’t know what locked that cage,”_ Lucifer snapped, also in Enochian. _“We need to find what it might be. And if Chloe is in London, I must be sure she is safe."_ His vocabulary changed for that last bit: gentle around Chloe’s name, he otherwise spoke like a general in harsh, military terms.

Crowley spun a circle in the air, and the others did too. They hovered above nighttime London. Maze complained from Lucifer’s arms. But Lucifer wasn’t wrong.

 _“Will you take her to the friars?”_ Crowley asked Aziraphale. He hadn’t thought of the Blackfriars. _“Pick up Rags and Amenadiel and have them call Richard? We can meet back at the bookshop.”_ He cuddled Door a little. She was warm and pliant, half-asleep in his arms. He didn’t know her well, but she was human and an incredible one at that; he wanted her safe.

 _“Yes,”_ said Aziraphale, _“Yes, of course.”_ He slipped in close.

His wings were big and kind of stupid, but Aziraphale was re-learning them, even though he kept banging them on things. Crowley barely felt their downdraft as Aziraphale pulled in close to take Door from him carefully.

“Wait—” said Door, “Wait—Crowley—” Her voice carried poorly in the wind. Crowley swallowed.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale told her softly, and the rest was stolen away in his beating wings, though it seemed to calm her.

“ _I’m coming with you,”_ said Castiel, eyes fixed on Door. His voice brooked no argument[6]. Aziraphale nodded at him.

 _“Stay safe, sunshinesweetlove,”_ Aziraphale said.

 _“You’re the one heading to London Below,”_ Crowley said tremulously, but what he meant was _I love you._ Aziraphale knew. Aziraphale always knew.

Aziraphale smiled at him and then turned gracefully, Castiel in his wake. Crowley hated to see him leave. He wanted to curl up to him and hide because Hell had been terrible. But the weren’t out of the woods yet.

“Crowley,” said Lucifer, firm and urgent.

“ _This way._ ” A deep, unnecessary breath of the clear London air, without the ash or stench of Hell, and Crowley led the way back to Aziraphale’s bookshop, without Aziraphale _or_ Castiel. Things could only go downhill from here.

________________________________

[1] Attacked but also carrying a Lady and a puppy. Something of a mixed message. If Aziraphale hadn’t been so worried he would have made a pack mule joke.

[2] The bookshop was the safest place Castiel knew.

[3] She couldn’t open it. She was far too tired, and it was Islington’s cage. Opening it was no mean feat. Surrounded by celestials, at their mercy—she hoped they would not make her try.

[4] A cage made to hold angels—like Lucifer’s cage. This place was oppressive, he had noticed that before but—if they were locked inside—He pushed back the fear, because it was not helpful. It was difficult. Humans called it—claustrophobia. He could feel it closing in. (If he were trapped in here, he would never see Sam or Dean again. A horrible, horrible thought).

[5] Lucifer was trying hard to breathe. He didn’t actually need to breathe unless he was near Chloe, but breathing reminded him that he was on Earth, and it was an option, here. Normally boxes and locked doors and things didn’t bother him so much, but this one, this one had his wretched Father’s fingerprints all over it. This one was meant to be impenetrable, like his horrid, horrid cage in Hell. The cage in Hell had a mechanism, though, and he’d scratched through to it, months and months of work. His fingers had bled and bled. When he’d seen this door closed, Lucifer’s vision had gone a little—gray. He wasn’t aware he’d done any sort of light trick. Just—the mechanism was at the top. So he went to the top, but there was no fist sized hole, and his breath came shorter and shorter and dizziness was ridiculous; he was no human, he was Lucifer, but he was trapped, caged, again again again--

[6] He had grown. Rather attached. To this charming, incredibly brave human, in their time in Hell. He would see her through to safety.


	25. Chapter 25

He led Lucifer, and therefore Mazikeen, back to the bookshop. Delaying would have been stupid, what with how Lucifer was huffing and puffing with anxiety about Chloe. Of course, there was no reason to believe that she wasn’t fine. She was literally in the bookshop, the safest place Crowley knew. Also, London was _London_ \--also very safe, in terms of things like demons or whatever. Lucifer was just a moron.

Except it turned out that Lucifer was not, in fact, a moron.

Crowley could see the comforting rooftop of the bookshop, and he arrowed to the roof. He nearly made it, too, but from above, silent as a shadow, as an _owl_ , something great and strong swooped down and knocked him painfully off course. He yelped, spinning in the air and scraped one of his primaries on the cement below before righting himself. Panic raced through him, because the last time that had happened he almost got carried off by a harpy! The puppy around his shoulders cried out, afraid. He couldn’t blame it.

Crowley righted himself, gasping, in time to see Amenadiel wheeling away, his movements sleek and shark-like. There was something red tied to his head, Crowley noticed absently.

“What?” he gasped. Lucifer rocketed past him.

Again, Amenadiel swooped down, buffeting Lucifer with a sharpened wing like a swan. Thrown off balance because he was carrying Maze, Lucifer staggered in the air, and called out, “Brother!”

Amenadiel’s answering shriek was more eagle than angel.

“What on Earth?” Crowley muttered. It was a blindfold, Crowley realized. The thing on Amenadiel's head was a dull red blindfold.

Lucifer wheeled away, confused, and as soon as he was—well—it was like he passed some invisible line. Amenadiel turned and dived, sharp and steep, slamming headfirst into the wards that surrounded the bookshop. He bounced off like a tennis ball; that was bad. He gave another angry eagle’s cry.

Lucifer hissed like an angry swan.

He deposited Maze on the ground in a quick swoop before launching himself at Amenadiel furiously. Together they spiraled upward, locked in some kind of battle, almost too quick for the eye to follow.

Crowley landed next to Maze. “Come on,” he said, “While Lucifer has him distracted.”

Maze frowned, but they raced for the door.

Amenadiel gave another angry cry, but Crowley had the door open by then. They scrambled inside and Crowley shut it in Amenadiel’s angry face. An angry face that was definitely wearing a blindfold. Why a blindfold?

Crowley leaned his back on the door, panting, eyes shut. Two deep, menacing growls rose to meet him. He opened his eyes, alarmed. 

An enormous German Shepherd and an oversized Beauceron stood by the door, teeth bared and bristling protectively.

Crowley leaned against the door again, relaxing. He knew those dogs, of course. The puppy around his shoulders whimpered and squirmed. “Hey, Watchdog, Shepherd.” 

Watchie’s ears pricked forward. Shepherd sat abruptly, eyes on Maze. She waggled her tail.

“Mutt,” Maze said, and Shepherd lunged for her with a joyous whimper. Watchdog galloped up to Crowley and reared, paws on his shoulders, so she could lick his face, chin to forehead, before sniffing the pup, tail wagging.

“MAZE!”

Trixie bolted from across the room and ran for her demon; Maze shook off the dog and caught her in her arms. “There you are,” Maze mumbled, and held her close.

Shortly on Trixie’s heels came Chloe, wide eyed. Shepherd raced to her side, huffing excitedly. She scratched her ears absently. “Crowley?” She asked. “Crowley, something’s wrong with Amenadiel—”

There was a great _thunk_ from above, and the whole building shuddered. Trixie and Chloe looked up nervously.

“What the hell?” Maze spat.

“He can’t break the wards,” Crowley said with absolute confidence. He’d set those wards. He was very proud of those wards. He’d spent a week in a haze coiled around Aziraphale to make them, and that had been lovely beyond reckoning. They’d set it up after the Leviathan fiasco. There was no getting through those wards.

“I don’t understand,” Chloe said urgently. “Please, I really don’t. Crowley. _What’s happening_?”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Crowley said. Finally, he put down the puppy, and watched it race off to hide somewhere in the bookshop. “You’re right about Amenadiel—I mean, what is he even doing here? He's supposed to guard the swamp—but if the wards are keeping him out, then it’s not good.”

“Explain the ward thing, please,” Chloe said firmly. She sounded afraid.

“Paradox wards,” Crowley told her soothingly. She relaxed right away; she knew how strong a paradox was, of course. “Can’t break them unless Aziraphale or I allow it. It’ll keep out anyone with ill intent.”

“So you’re saying _Amenadiel_ has ill intent?” Maze said. “Seriously? _Amenadiel_? _ **[1]**_”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said with a swallow. “But if the wards are keeping him out, then they’re keeping him out. It’s all that’s blocked, I mean. Ill intent. Everything else is allowed: good, evil, angel, demon, human, whatever.”

Chloe was nodding. “Where’s Lucifer?”

“Outside,” Maze said.

“And they’re fighting,” Chloe said. She paused. “Lucifer won’t win on his own.”

“Yeah.” Crowley had kind of an idea of what she was thinking, and he was hardly going to stop her. It was a good plan, for all that it would probably make him feel queasy.

Chloe nodded and nodded. She bit her lip. “Baby,” she told Trixie. “Stay with Maze and Crowley.”

“Decker,” Maze said, “What are you doing?”

“Something stupid,” said Chloe.

“Mommy?”

“It’ll be fine, Monkey. Crowley, get out of the way.”

Crowley pushed away from the door. “You know how to do it quick?” he asked urgently. “You’ll have to be fast; _Amenadiel_ is fast, and you’re human, you don’t get a second chance—”

“I can do it quick,” Chloe said softly. She quirked her lips. “It’s like a kiss, Crowley. It’s not that hard.”

He nodded. She wasn’t wrong. “Bring Shepherd,” he said.

“Crowley.”

“Just—for my peace of mind, please? Lucifer might actually murder me if something happens to you.”

She sighed. “Hey, Shep, want to come?” The dog was at her side in an instant, tail wagging excitedly. Her eyes glowed red, and little prickles of glowing crimson shone between the strands of her fur.

Crowley stroked Watchdog, who generally didn’t glow. When Chloe opened the door, he kept it open a crack and held his breath. 

Chloe stepped out, the dog at her heels. She held one hand behind her, palm down. “Lucifer!” she called.

From above, there was a horrified eagle’s scream. Amenadiel’s predatory stoop was silent.

Crowley tried to exhale. It did not work.

In one moment, there was no glow beneath Chloe’s hand. The next, it blazed magenta, weirdly pink, and the paradox made Crowley feel sick. It had a musty, dusty, feeling and his wings itched. She tossed it in the air like a ball.

Amenadiel swerved, but it jerked last minute and roared to life, encasing him into a kind of pinkish egg that lowered slowly to the ground. It glowed brightly in the damp London night. Amenadiel flailed within, but there was no breaking something like that. Behind the egg, there was a whisper of wings. Lucifer’s wings were spread wide, nearly hovering as he drifted down like the seed of a dandelion. They looked a little pinkish in the light of Amenadiel’s egg-prison. Shepherd stepped forward to pace around the prison, growling. 

“Chloe,” Lucifer said urgently as his feet touched down. His eyes were glowing red, and he had a cut on his cheek from one of the blades of Amenadiel’s wings.

“Lucifer,” she breathed and ran to him. He swept her up and held her tightly, white wings curling to engulf her. “Lucifer, what happened? Are you alright?” She cupped his cheek, carefully touching the scratch, just above the sheltering curve of Lucifer’s wing.

He leaned in to press his forehead to hers. “I’m fine, darling, I’m fine. Why are you out here?”

She pulled back and gave him a look. “I thought you needed help.”

“I had everything under control!” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it was definitely unconvincing.

“Mm. I see that.” Her voice was amused. “Did he scratch you?” She touched the wound again.

He kissed her temple and gave a short rolling thrum at her concern and her touch, and probably feeling fuzzy from the paradox, too. “Nothing time won’t heal. Do you have any idea what happened?”

“No,” Chloe said, muffled by his neck. “We were in the shop, and then suddenly he was trying to break in.”

“I think he’s cursed!” Crowley called through the crack in the door because he wasn’t going out there yet. There might be more crazy angels! Michael was unaccounted for, after all!

Also, everyone needed a second to be mushy and cuddly after a paradox. It was like, a law or something. He was giving them space.

“Obviously,” Maze muttered behind him. He could hear the eyeroll. “Move, Crowley.” Apparently, she didn’t care about paradoxes.

Maze seized Trixie’s hand and marched past Crowley, out into the street. Crowley, not wanting to be left behind, scrambled to follow, Watchdog at his heels. 

“Crowley’s right,” Maze said shortly. “He’s cursed. I know what kind of curse, too.”

London was not very dark at night, not really. But Crowley knew, as all demons knew, where the shadows were, and how to hide in them. From a dark spot in a doorway slipped a small, slender figure, dark hair long and sleek. She wore no clothes or shoes, and she stepped delicately out into the street.

Maze went from zero to sixty in an instant. She pulled Trixie slightly behind her, and her eyes actually blazed with Hellfire. “What are _you_ doing here,” she snarled.

“Is that any way to greet your mother, Mazikeen?” purred Lilith, stepping into the streetlight.

Crowley felt himself tense all over. Lilith had followed them all through the Sixth Circle. She’d made up her mind about something. When had she got out? _How_ had she got out? She had no wings; she should not have been able to get out, except by way of Islington’s Cage, and Aziraphale definitely would have blocked her. He watched her with wide eyes, one hand creeping into Watchdog’s scruff, quieting her low, fearsome growl.

“No,” said Lucifer. He released Chloe and slipped her behind one of his wings, gently. She allowed him the protective gesture[2]. “But it is a way to speak to a subject. What are you doing here, Lilith?” Lucifer looked up and added, sharply, “Crowley.”

Right. Crowley didn’t have anyone to protect. Beckoning Watchdog, he slipped in to stand at Lucifer’s left side. Watchdog sat at Chloe’s feet, while Shepherd guarded Amenadiel. Where were Aziraphale and Castiel, Crowley thought.

“You’ll be pleased to know, my lord Lucifer, that I’ve been offered asylum from your kingdom and a rule of my own,” Lilith sniffed. “So this is goodbye, for the last time. I need the lady, though.” She nodded at Chloe. “That angel did a terrible job of fetching her; Aren’t angels supposed to follow orders? I’m very disappointed.” She tutted at Amenadiel, imprisoned in the paradox.

“You’ve—what?” spluttered Maze.

“Kneel,” said Lucifer, sharp as a whipcrack and twice as angry.

“No,” said Lilith. Which, to be fair, was what she always said – there was a rule in Hell, that Lilith knelt for no one, except Lucifer, and Lucifer didn’t ask. “You can come with me, if you want, Mazikeen,” said Lilith lightly. “We never really had a chance, you and I.”

“Because you left me to die in the Seventh Circle,” Maze snarled. Behind her, Trixie gasped in horror.

“Never been very good with children,” Lilith said lightly. “Except for sautéing them, of course.” She looked over Maze’s shoulder at Trixie. Next to Lucifer, Crowley heard Chloe make a little choking sound, abruptly and truly afraid. Lucifer growled his rare archdemon’s growl.

“You will show respect to your king,” he snarled. “Now kneel, or I shall make you kneel.” He took a menacing step forward, wings half spread aggressively.

Lilith danced backwards with a bright, more-than-half-mad laugh. Lucifer was like a hair's breadth away from getting violent. Not good, and more importantly not productive. 

This had spiraled, but they did actually need information. They needed her to talk, and to keep on talking. Lucifer looked ready to rend Lilith, and Maze was not far behind him. Crowley had passed afraid and into terror a while ago, but he reasoned that he was the only one thinking remotely clearly[3], so he asked the question. “Who’s offering you asylum?” he croaked.

Lilith looked at him. She frowned and then laughed again, this time low and amused. “You’re still around? Lucifer, Lucifer, what are you doing with the snake from _Eden_?”

Lucifer's eyes were glowing. “Answer the question.”

“No kneeling?” she purred and laughed when he clapped his wings, hard enough that the downdraft made her stumble to one knee--that kneel that Lucifer was demanding. She rose, brushing off her hands disdainfully. “Your Father needs me in another universe. And he needed your human. He says he’ll give me the other Hell, if I could get her. Humans can rule there, you see.”

“My Father.” Lucifer’s hands clenched into fists. He pulled his wings forward, blades first, a truly terrifying threat display. Crowley felt his knees turn to jelly on an instinctive level at the sight of those blades. That body language screamed _I will obliterate you,_ and Crowley felt it like a punch to the gut _._ Lucifer had been a Seraph. Crowley had been just a little Angel. He swallowed a squeak, for standing there in front of Chloe was not Crowley’s friend who loved Earth, but Satan Himself, the Adversary and the Grand Ruler of Hell, eyes hungry and enraged. 

“Mmm-hmm,” Lilith said, not seeming to care about her imminent destruction.

“You’re making deals with my Father,” snarled Lucifer, like he couldn’t believe it. His eyes were starting to glow again, and his wings shifted, his threat display morphing into all-out war. “You hate him.”

Lilith shrugged. She seemed to be relishing Lucifer’s rage. “Sweeter deal.”

“You dare—” Lucifer lunged forwards, fury writ in every line of him—except that Chloe stopped him, hand fisted in the back of his shirt, still a very fine leather and in the style of Hell. Crowley nearly choked on his own tongue at the bravery in that gesture.

“Then go,” Chloe said softly. Her voice wavered, but she forged on. “I’m not coming with you. If you want to leave, then leave. Don’t come back.”

Lilith laughed. “What, is she Queen now?”

“More than you ever were,” snarled Lucifer. His wings swept back and forward, protection and threat together. Crowley had definitely lost his voice. “Clemency,” Lucifer added, finally. “If she grants you mercy, then take it and run, because I do not. If you want to play by my Father’s twisted rules, go.”

“No punishment, my King?” Lilith simpered. “You do so love your punishments.”

“Your punishment will be upon your return,” Lucifer growled, “And you will return. Call it _mercy_.” The last was a sneer. 

“Hmm,” Lilith said. She glanced at Amenadiel wrapped up in pink light. “ _Absolve_.”

Lucifer laughed, and his eyes glowed. Crowley tightened his grip on Watchdog’s scruff, though more for reassurance than anything else. Amenadiel writhed within his prison but did not break free.

Of course he didn’t. There was no way he could, even bespelled as he was.

“Lilith, darling, that is a paradox,” Lucifer said, all menace and pity. “No spell of _yours_ can break it.” He took a step forward, mantling his wings again, an all-out war display. “Last chance. Go to my Father, or I’m afraid I’ll have to feed you to something unpleasant.”

“Lucifer, darling, he’s under my binding spell,” Lilith sneered, though she took a step back from those wings. “My specialty.”

“Yes, I have your book, very useful. I tire of your tone, Lilith.”

“My tone,” sneered Lilith, abruptly furious. “My tone. I will just get out of your world, then, my king, my lord, my liege. How _generous_ of you, to let me go, how kind—a far cry from how you’ve treated me in the last millennia. Not even invited to the first procession you had in eons—not that you’ve even been _present_ before that! Oh, he’s gone! Disappeared back to Earth! Can’t stand Hell, they say. Can’t stand any of us. Why bother ruling, my king, if you hate us all?” The last was a sneer. “I tried to lock you in, in that cage that belonged to the angel who went mad—maybe you’d go back and tend your people, for once.”

“You locked us in Islington’s cage,” Lucifer hissed.

“Obviously!” snapped Lilith. “Just doing my best for the good of the kingdom! Remember your kingdom, Lucifer Morningstar? But they say there’s a _human_ ruling Hell in the next universe over, that it’s possible there. So if you won’t give me the respect I deserve, I will find it elsewhere!” Lilith laughed, high pitched and eerie. She turned tail and ran—straight to Maze.

“Close enough,” she scoffed at Maze, before grabbing Trixie’s arm, and yanking. She was strong enough to pull Trixie off her feet, so the girl stumbled with a yelp. Maze whirled after them, all daggers and rage.

“Let her go,” she spat.

“Should have the same powers as mom, right? Maybe a substitute will do.” Lilith grinned and pulled at Trixie again.

Chloe and Lucifer’s cries were drowned out by Shepherd’s howl; the great hound bounded from her post and closed her jaws, vicious, on Lilith’s arm, pulling her down and away from Trixie. Maze’s hooked, hell-forged blade slammed into her gut with a horrible sound.

“Let her go,” spat Maze, again.

And Lilith laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed, blood leaking from her mouth, and she faded like a ghost. Trixie faded too, and Crowley had a sickening moment where he thought she would be lost, but this girl was no fainting damsel. Trixie pulled a familiar knife from around her waist – the one with the round pommel, the one she’d stabbed Islington with—and jammed it hard into Lilith’s wrist.

That was a paradox knife. It had tasted angel blood. Talk about weird properties. Lilith shrieked and pulled her hand away before vanishing entirely.

Trixie went solid right away, breathing heavily. Shepherd snuggled up against her side, whining. Maze gripped her knife and took a step back, pushing Trixie backwards gently, away from where Lilith had been standing. For a brief moment, there was a shocked silence. The only sounds were Trixie drawing gasping breaths and the blood dripping softly from her knife.

\-------------

[1] Amenadiel had good intentions, always, this Mazikeen knew. And though the road to Hell was paved with door-to-door salesmen, good intent was fun to mess around with, too. Still, in this instance, no way should he be locked out of here. What was happening?

[2] One which made way more sense with visible wings, frankly. Chloe smoothed down one of the coverts close to his back, still feeling floaty and affectionate from the paradox. He liked those kinds of touches, the sort of thing that acknowledged and more importantly approved of some of his baser, less human instincts. Sure enough, he leaned into her, a little. She frowned when her hand came away ashy. Was Hell that gross? She scrubbed at the nearest feather with her thumb.

She didn’t seem to realize what a fussy gesture it was, but it made him feel warm and cared for, and twice as protective. Lucifer glared at Lilith.

[3] Scary thought, but he had way less history with Lilith than everyone else did here, except maybe Chloe. She’d stepped on him a few times in the Garden and he definitely didn’t like her, but she’d never personally hurt him, as she seemed to have the others.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS I GOT IMPATIENT HERE'S THE END OF THE STORY EEEEEE!!

“Trixie!” Chloe shot from behind Lucifer and landed on her knees in front of her girl. “Baby, are you alright?” she demanded, rubbing her arms.

“I’m alright, mom,” replied Trixie softly, but she still threw her arms around Chloe’s neck, kind of belying that. Maze stood sentry, eyes flashing, waiting for the next threat. Crowley watched her, a little wary. 

Next to him, Lucifer had gone rigid and enraged. “When she comes back, Crowley,” Lucifer said, low and a little growly, a little frightening, “I’ll need a cage.”

“A cage?” Crowley gulped, but he was surprised. Lucifer was intense and scary at the moment, but he hated cages.

“Yes. In the Eighth Circle. Unless you think the harpies are a better end for her?” Lucifer was shaking, Crowley realized. His eyes were flashing red, his hands clenched into fists. He swept his wings behind himself, folded them on his back, where they bristled with emotion. Absolute rage.

Crowley swallowed in the face of that rage. An end by one of the beasts of Hell was an eternal torment, for they also devoured the soul. It was not quite unmaking per se, for the soul lived on, but it was not a pretty sight when it came out the other end, permanently damaged.

“Sseventh Circle,” said Crowley, still feeling a little shocky, a little afraid. Though he felt rather numb, he spoke, for the first time in a long time, like a demon. Lucifer was snarling and enraged and Lilith had been frightening. She’d tried to steal a human that Crowley loved, too, and she’d attacked a member of Angel Network. Crowley spoke with all his darker instincts when he said,“Violensse. Let it be violent, my king, for trying to hurt your human sso.” 

“I like the way you think,” growled Lucifer.

Crowley--didn't so much like the way he thought. He took a deep, calming breath, and tried to ground himself. It only sort of worked. “You think she’ll be back?” he whispered, after a moment. At least he managed not to hiss. 

“If she is working for Father, I know she will be,” Lucifer growled. “Begging for asylum.”

Crowley swallowed and nodded. “Right. Why—I mean. Why do you think Him Above wanted Chloe?”

Lucifer’s scowl was furious. “No idea,” he said, and apparently having reached his limit for demons, even Crowley, he strode off to comfort his humans. Crowley couldn't really blame him. 

There was a whisper of warm fur on his leg. Watchie looked up at Crowley and whined. “Thanks,” Crowley told her softly, and patted her head. “You’re a good girl, you know that?”

She wuffed, quietly, and looked over.

Crowley followed her eyes to Amenadiel, still blindfolded, still trapped. “Yeah, good point,” he told his dog. “How do we fix him without Lilith?” He looked back to his companions.

Lucifer had knelt beside Chloe and Trixie, and his great white wings curled around them both, holding them safe. No longer battle ready, the gesture was protective and gentle. Outside the circle, Maze scratched Shepherd’s ears, looking annoyed and more than a little feral. She caught Crowley’s eyes, and wandered over.

“Alright?” Crowley asked her, wary. She looked like she wanted to start burning things down like Belial.

Maze gritted her teeth and looked back to Lucifer and the humans, specifically Trixie. “Yeah.” The lie was unconvincing. 

Crowley gestured to Amenadiel. “What do we do about him?”

Maze made a disgusted sound. “It’s a binding spell. It’s from that book Asteroth stole from mom, right? I’ve seen it before. Mom does this crap all the time. He’s wearing a blindfold so he can’t see who he’s fighting. Just take it off and it’ll break the binding.”

Crowley blinked. “That’s—surprisingly simple.”

“Mom called it ‘elegant,’” sneered Maze[1]. Her fists clenched and she looked back at Trixie, again, like she wanted to guard her. As a general rule, Lesser Demons weren't the best guards, compared to angels, which could stand sentry for centuries, if need be. At the moment, Maze looked like she could give the best of them a run for their money. 

“Yeesh,” said Crowley.

In front of them, Chloe and Lucifer got to their feet, but Lucifer didn’t open his wings. From somewhere behind the white feathers, Trixie gave a sniffling giggle. Maze twitched next to Crowley. 

He knew Lesser Demons had feelings, of course, even though they denied it. They were often quick-tempered and violent, with a jeering, sneering sense of humor, at least in Crowley's experience. He knew that they could feel love, too, though most didn't call it love; they called it loyalty or obsession, when it was obvious that it was more than that. Mazikeen was not unique, then, in her strong feelings. But Crowley hadn't realized they could also adopt humans, or that they might want to. Mazikeen was kind of remarkable, wasn't she? She'd definitely adopted Trixie, and Crowley would bet money that she'd adopted Chloe, too. And Linda! Of course Linda! Linda had said that Maze was her best friend! How had he not realized this? 

“Ugh,” Lucifer was saying from his big bundle of feathers and humans, “Do not touch them. They are filthy enough without your sticky hands—Beatrice!” And Chloe laughed, soft and breathy. Next to Crowley, Maze relaxed a little. They were going to be okay. 

There was a cry from above, and Crowley and Maze looked up. Having missed all the action, naturally, Aziraphale and Castiel spiraled down.

Crowley gazed up at them, and felt his knees turn to jelly again. As soon as Aziraphale landed, he walked over to him, heedless of the great wings and the people watching. He put his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder and exhaled the way a snake might exhale: stressed and afraid. The wind stirred by Aziraphale’s wings tousled his hair.

“My dear?” Aziraphale asked. His hindwings, smaller, came to curl around Crowley, warm and concerned.

Castiel stalked up to him, bristling and protective. “What happened?” he growled.

“Apparently my mother is working for your Father,” snarled Mazikeen. “Turns out there’s only one of him. She traumatized Crowley. Or maybe Lucifer did. Not sure. Crowley's easy to traumatize.”

“My Father,” breathed Castiel. He seemed to flinch. “Oh, no. Crowley are you alright?”

Aziraphale’s arms went tight around him. Crowley nodded into his shoulder.

“She’s gone to your Hell,” said Lucifer sharply from where he was snuggling his humans. “Likely to challenge that Rowena for the throne. But she wanted Chloe—or Beatrice— for some reason. Any ideas?” The last was a growl, as he tightened his wings around his little family.

“Chloe,” whispered Castiel, eyes sliding to her, sheltered in Lucifer’s wings. “She’s—you’re the one who’s immune?” he asked.

Chloe swallowed, but she met his gaze bravely. “Yes.”

“That’s a threat,” Castiel said softly. “If you’re immune to celestials you might—might—have a degree of immunity to Him.”

Crowley shivered in Aziraphale’s arms. That was a terrifying thought. Aziraphale crooned to him, a low angelic hum, and it sounded like a snatch of Raphael’s Lullaby, from long ago. Crowley felt some of the tension in his spine release involuntarily.

“What does that mean?” growled Lucifer.

“I have no idea,” said Castiel, apologetic. "Father has been--very active--in our world. In Nightmare World." He looked down at the concrete and sighed. Crowley could practically see the weight drifting back to his shoulders, and he knew the next thing out of his mouth was not going to be good. “In truth,” Castiel said, regret coloring his voice, “I think it means I should go home.”

“You are home,” Aziraphale said sharply, and Crowley made a sound of agreement. 

Castiel looked up. “Chuck—God—he killed Jack,” Castiel said. “And now his reach threatens this world. If he is touching this Hell, through this Lilith… I can’t let him ruin this place too, Aziraphale, I can’t. If he wants to--to start interfering here, too—I have to stop it. I have to go back[2].”

“You could still stay,” Aziraphale said. His face didn’t show it, but Crowley was close enough to feel it in his tense muscles; Aziraphale was very upset. “Let the chips fall where they may. He may yet leave us be.”

Castiel smiled sadly. “If I stay, Aziraphale, nothing changes,” he said. “There will be nothing stopping Chuck from coming here. If I go back, I could—fix things. That’s what we do, the Winchesters and I. We fix things.” He spread his wings in a shrug.

Crowley peeked up from Aziraphale’s shoulders and couldn’t help but notice: the tips of Castiel’s feathers weren’t ragged anymore. Of course they weren’t. Castiel had settled into himself; he’d saved the world, or a world, without being anywhere near those wretched boys of his. Even just looking at him, it was clear he’d got some of his confidence back.

And Castiel had other people who loved him, back in that dreadful world, terrible though they may be. Aziraphale’s fingers played gently in Crowley’s feathers. Crowley leaned into it. It always helped, he thought as he enjoyed the affection in that touch, having people who loved you.

“That’s your choice, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “We’ll be waiting here. When you need us.”

“Always, Pigeon,” said Lucifer darkly. “Do keep us posted, on what happens in the other world. I’m afraid it might start to affect us, if our Father is behaving this way.” He bared his teeth, and it wasn’t quite a smile.

Castiel tilted his head to one side, considering[3]. “Thank you,” he said at last. “I will.” He frowned at Amenadiel, still trapped in his prison. “What is that?”

“Oh, he’s under a binding spell, he’s fine,” Maze said, rolling her eyes. “Decker, lower the shield and I’ll break him out of it.”

Lucifer growled again, but Trixie squeezed him around the middle, and Chloe reached out and ran her fingers through his feathers, calming him. Her eyes flashed with the small paradox. It felt gross as always; Aziraphale shuddered against him. But Crowley caught a glimpse of Castiel’s eyes growing wide with visible longing, despite his flinch. Poor old bastard. His humans could never casually smooth his feathers. 

Maze marched up to the strange, egg-shaped shield and, with a glance to Chloe to confirm the fading paradox, reached inside. She grasped the blindfold and pulled it off sharply. The shield faded as Amenadiel blinked at her, confused.

“Mazikeen?” he asked. “What just happened?”

“Oh, you know, our Father took Lilith and almost took Beatrice to another world to—who even knows, really,” Lucifer snapped. “And now our Castiel is going to head off there to fix whatever the Hell He’s doing in Nightmare World. Hello! Welcome to the conversation!”

Amenadiel blinked again. “Wh—seriously?” he blurted. "When did this happen? How did we even _get_ here? The last thing I remember is the Labyrinth!"

Crowley giggled sickly against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “We’re doomed.”

Castiel hissed at him abruptly, an angelic noise like an angry swan. Startled, Crowley met his eyes.

Resolved, he stood straight and tall, blue eyes flashing. They were going to have to get him a real body, and not a dead human, Crowley thought faintly as Castiel said, “Not if I can help it.” He turned to Lucifer and his humans. “I’ll need an escort back to the Eighth Circle.”

“Take Azazel,” said Lucifer. “He’ll get you there safely. And Castiel?”

Castiel cocked his head.

“Take care,” said Lucifer, and even Crowley could see that he meant it.

This could not possibly end well.

\---------------------------------------

[1] She liked the look on her victim’s face: remove the blindfold, let them see who they’ve killed. Elegant indeed.

[2]And he missed his Winchesters, and his home and his world. The Lady Door, that remarkable human, one he could grow to love given time, was safe and sound, curled in the arms of her friend Richard. It was clear that she would be fine, with rest. They had closed the holes in Hell—most of them—and no one had died. This was the biggest win Castiel had had in a long, long time, even if it was not a full win. It felt—imperfect, but good. If he could protect his friends, his Crowley and his Aziraphale, then all the better. It was time to go. It was time to save the world, and he could only do that with Sam and Dean.

[3] He considered both the statement and Lucifer’s use of Crowley’s nickname. He found neither offensive, much to his surprise.


	27. Epilogue

Long ago and far away, or just now and rather near, was an in-between sort of place.

There was once a girl with extraordinary powers. She could pass through this place to reach what she called the Upside Down. This place was not so interesting as the Upside Down was: it was expansive and echoing. It didn’t quite follow rules. Angels mostly call it the Empty, because it seemed entirely empty, devoid of any sort of light or life, or even shadow. To the human eye it might seem dark, but Amara, the Darkness, could never truly touch this place. It was a void, not darkness. There was, simply, nothing. 

Though not entirely nothing. There was an Entity there. It was one of the very few things that most angels feared; they whispered of it in Enochian. Its name sometimes translates to _Shadow,_ as in, what happens when light or life is blocked or ended, or it could translate to _the Darkness that Follows_. It slept, and it preferred to sleep. Though lately it didn’t, lately it was awake, because of that wretched angel Castiel, and now there were things buzzing buzzing buzzing in its ears and it was all very annoying.

The Entity existed. It always had and it always would. It had dreamed up the Empty, or rather it hadn’t. It didn’t have as much of an imagination as its siblings; the Empty remained featureless and dark, though if the Entity had the slightest amount of creativity, that could change. It never changed. 

So when the sibling that the humans called God, which went by a name so idiotic as _Chuck,_ showed up on its proverbial doorstep, it glared.

Chuck had an imp in one hand. “Trade you,” he said cheerfully. “I need this one, but a different model.”

“What?” hissed the imp. “What are you talking about? You promised me Hell!”

“I promised you a realm; I didn’t say which. So? Trade? Lilith 2.0 for Lilith 1.0? You know, the one who came from the more interesting universe? They're calling it 'Nightmare World' because they think they're clever. Anyway, I liked the other model better.”

The Empty, the Shadow, stared at its sibling. It wasn’t a bad deal. Nothing gained, nothing lost, and one day, eventually, eventually, it would swallow up even its sibling, too.

Long ago and far away, men had called the Entity the name Cronus. Time eats up everything, in the end. Even Gods.

The deal was acceptable.

Pity, though. Chuck had promised him a miracle-human, too. Just as a gift. “What about the girl?” it asked. “The strong one. The one you said you couldn’t have _running around and being immune._ You said it would _mess things up._ ”

“That’s for later,” said God with a self-satisfied smirk. “Now give me my demon.” He thrust the imp forward.

It squealed, and then it slept, like they all did. The Entity called forth the other, and then swept away, leaving Chuck with his prize.

“What the hell?” blurted the new demon when it woke. Lilith 1.0, apparently. Killed as a sacrifice during an apocalypse, the Entity recalled. Sam Winchester did the deed and it released--well, they were calling it a "Nightmare" version of Lucifer from a cage Hell; that world was terribly tedious. Nightmare World indeed. 

“So,” said God to the demon. “Got a preposition for you. How do you feel about killing the Winchester brothers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FWAHAHAHAHA! Things are gonna get a bit--chaotic-- now!! I have finished writing this series (????) or at least this arc; the last one needs a second draft. Anyway, you'll be seeing more; don't worry about the cliffhanger. I got you! 
> 
> The next one is very short (~10,000 words), and about that time Raguel was a pirate. Look for Where We Will (we'll roam), coming soon to a computer near you.


End file.
